Knight in Training
by Scarlettplay
Summary: Knights in Training must pass the test to move on. One knight in particular, plans to rise above this station and contest Henry VIII for the crown he believes is rightfully his. But will a female stable-hand with a wicked tongue, creamy white shoulders and a lack of fear, ruin his plans? AH/OOC BxE Rated M for mature themes.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Hooves Hang-up**

_May of 1528_

"Lance!" I bellow.

The nameless mousey girl with long dark hair, scampers to my side, slips it into my hand, and I gallop off, forgetting completely about her existence.

"You. Are. Mine!" I can taste victory on the tip of my tongue.

He will not best me.

I will obliterate him, and he can trot off to the losers' quarters.

It makes no matter to me where he lands in this arena.

Whether he's on the right or the left, it's all the same.

The point of my lance will displace him from his steed.

Shiny metal and new techniques in armory make no difference.

My horse is better, my skills sharper and my resolve to be the best is the sole reason he will lose.

His visor is set in place, the flag waves, trumpets blast, and I am the wind, the sleet, and snow. I am the blizzard that will overtake and blind him.

The hard beat of the hooves beneath me are so familiar I rarely listen to them.

To hear the approach and the villainous breath of my foe, that is where my senses are attuned.

As he pounds forward to his doom, my horse whinnies, and I am suddenly flung back.

A horseshoe clangs a foot away from my head, and I am dazed.

Not for long.

The second my breath returns, I am on my feet howling at the stupid girl that didn't check Grayson's shoes before I mounted him.

"What is this?" I scream at her.

She runs towards my horse without fear of the animal, but plenty of trepidation where I am concerned.

She will not look me in the eye.

"Are you deaf in addition to being inferior of mind?" I howl.

She bows before me quickly then tends to Grayson's hooves.

"My apologies, my lord. I checked him over twice in the stall, but it appears I did not see this," she says, pointing to the real problem.

White line: fungus disease of the hoof.

How did this escape my notice?

"You are responsible for this!" I throw my helmet to the ground, and stomp around, kicking anything in sight. "You are supposed to trim his hooves properly and put down fresh hay nightly before Grayson is put away for the night. You know it's been raining a lot these past nights."

"Apologies, sir, but there is no more hay. The treasury says the knights in training games cannot be funded until next week," she says, her eyes trained on the ground.

"This is unacceptable." I kick a rock, and flies in her direction.

"I can . . . maybe get some hay from a local farmer nearby," she suggests.

"You do that, and maybe I'll keep you on as my stable-hand and decide not to whip you soundly," I say, glaring.

Her shirt slips off her shoulder, and she immediately rights it.

My eyes go wide, my jaw snaps shut, and my brow goes up. It is unseemly for a shoulder to be revealed. I glance over her appearance.

Nothing is right about this girl.

Her bodice was most definitely threaded in haste, and her shirt, not the usual feminine attire, is too large for her. It looks like a man's.

Her skirt drags across the ground, also not the proper length.

Where was she raised? In the barn my horse was bred in?

"Get some clothes that fit you, woman!" I demand, and leave in haste before something else falls off her body.

I hear the echo of hoots and howls in the stand from my fellow knights in training.

"You sir, are no knight," Emmett calls down to me.

"Pray, tell me something I don't know!" I grit through my teeth as I leave without so much as looking his direction.

I never lose!

That stupid girl can grab my helmet on her way to the stalls.

If she forgets it, I will force her to pay for that in addition to the hay.

It's time she learns to keep in line and serve me properly.

**A/N:**

**Sheesh! Such a grouch!**

**Yep, this story is nothing like Harkham's Case at all. So, if you're looking for a sweet-loving Edward, this is not the story for you.**

**Couldn't resist. Had to celebrate my obsession for all things Tudors, and spread the love (or annoyance as the case may be) by posting this story.**

**Just an FYI: white line is a fungus hoof disease on horses. Let us assume she treated it with the** **non-toxic substance of Apple Cider Vinegar by soaking it for a good hour to kill any yeast (which can some times accompany this problem), trimmed the hooves, and then wrapped it in a poultice with herbs. This would need to be done at least once a week along with cleaning the stall regularly and keeping the hooves dry. **

**Ugh! Sounds exhausting! Kind of like this Edward and his exacting personality!**

**Here's your warning: this one is steamy so I would suggest 18 years and up to read it (plus some adult themes discussed like sexuality in Tudor times, rape, child bearing, etc).**

**Good news? This story is already completed. I wrote it about a year ago as a warm-up for my Henry VIII story I'm publishing this weekend, Hart Coursing. These chapters are short, but there's a lot of them. I had to break it up this way so it would make sense. I'm thinking I'll probably update 3 times a week. Haven't picked the days yet. I'll keep ya posted…**

**Ride on, fair knight.**

**We give you our favor (or I do at any rate). :D**

**Scarlett**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Dry, Not All**

The morning breaks, and I am in ill humor.

My horse better be dry, all.

His hooves will be treated, the stall filled with fresh hay, and if my helmet has so much of a smudge from her grubby fingers, I will have her head on a pike.

My page, Garrett, circles around me, chirping about how today my horse will be in top shape, and I will prove my prowess in the joust.

He is right.

Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, brother-in-law to the king, will be there to watch.

Today is the day knights in training will be evaluated, and I'm ready.

I've been ready for months; longer than I can count on both hands.

If the fear from sweating sickness rumors hadn't thrown the land into a state of worry, I would have been knighted already, and would not have to train with the rest of the peons.

I take a deep breath as he finishes the last placement of my armor.

There is no breeze, and my annoyance is edged over to barking mad.

"Are you done?" I shift my weight away from him to encourage him to desist.

He jumps up with a cheery disposition. "Ready, sir."

"It is best you get out of my way, then," I say, shoving him aside.

He doesn't balk. It's not his right, and I care not what he thinks.

His thoughts are not a factor.

Today I will shine.

I will no longer be an esquire. Not I.

I am bred for higher, nobler titles.

Father made sure I never had to be lowered into the position of page, but instead went directly at age fourteen into esquire.

I am a baron, and as such should not be kept waiting.

No more. This oversight and neglect will stop today.

My county of Kent is kept safe and protected by none other than me.

Tonight I take my steeds, Grayson and Knicklom, back to Leeds castle.

I will get away from that dratted girl, the peasant from yesterday that treated my horse as anything but the truly spectacular specimen he is. She has done nothing but vex me and twist my thoughts around into lurid places where shoulders are creamy white with no mar at all.

All last night I thought about that glistening flesh misted with sweat in the sunlight. To touch it feel the moistness . . .

My breathing halts.

She did it on purpose. I know it, aye.

What kind of fool does she take me for?

A simple showing of skin is not enough to entice a man of my station.

I'll display who I am for her today.

She needs to remember she is here to serve _me_.

I fancied making her plate up my armor and fastening it on me today in the stead of Garrett. She could not do as good a job as he, but it would be nice to put her in place and intimidate her a little.

He grates on me with his constant chatter.

I want to muzzle him and kick him down the hall.

But he's the best and quickest at what he does, and I will accept nothing less.

_Click, click, click, click . . . _

My heels echo down the stony halls, and I scowl at all passing by.

I mean to prove my valor.

I mean to clear these other squires off the jousting green.

They are nothing.

My pace quickens as I see the sunlight up ahead.

The moment I step into its rays, the brilliance bounces off my perfectly shined metal cage.

I am suffocating inside this contraption, but I do not let on with any fidgeting or brush of idle foot.

No. My footing is sure, and this is the day.

The girl, the same one to anger me yesterday, meets me right outside the stable. The reins are in her petite hands, and her eyes are sheltered by her hair, flopping forward into her face.

My stomach tightens and my jaw flexes while my eyes narrow at her.

"Look me in the eye, damsel, when you see me approach. If you do not, then I shall cut your hair off without hesitation, using the dullest blade I possess. Is that understood?" I huff.

She braves a glance up after swiping her hair back.

Is that _sweat_ on her forehead already? What has she possibly done to warrant hard breathing and a look of toil on her brow?

I quirk a look of questioning at her. "Well?"

"Yes, my lord. I will make sure to remember that," she says and then curtsies.

I glance inside the stall and see nothing amiss.

It looks well managed, I smell fresh hay, and she even managed to empty all of the troughs and put in fresh water.

Impressive for somebody as small in stature as her.

She grips the ends of her skirt, this time the proper length. But it is ill fitting around her waist. There is a sloppy seam looped around the edges of the hem.

"Good Lord, girl, can't you wear the appropriate attire? Who makes these hideous clothes for you?" I lift my chest with a deep breath.

She tilts her chin up, and I see the hint of a glare.

"I do. I am not an accomplished seamstress. Nay, my talents are lacking in that regard," she admits.

She bites her lip.

That juicy, delectable, plump lower lip that has now caught my attention—is worse than her shoulder!

Gad! She means to slowly torture me to death.

"Stop that!" I say, pointing at her lip.

Her eyes go wide, and she releases her hold on it and then snaps her jaw shut with an audible clack.

She fiddles with her skirt, but keeps her eyes on mine, unsure of what to say at this point.

"How did you come to be in my service, since you are equally appalling at equestrian care as you are at stitching clothing?" My eyes roam over her entire appearance.

That hint of a glare turns into a challenging look of defiance.

"I volunteered, if your lordship must know," she says, her tongue sharp and quick. And then that same offensive organ, darts out over the lower lip she was biting moments ago, and moistens it.

If she was not in my good graces this morning for taking good care of my two horses, I would pull that dull knife out now, trim her hair along with that errant appendage, to keep it from flitting out of her mouth.

"And somebody allowed you to do this? What of your father? Has he no dignity?" I cry. "This is an outrage."

"My father, I live with, is blind. And he's not in the habit of refusing me, since I am all he has left. I enjoy working with the horses in the field on the farm, and unlike some people's opinions, he thinks me quite adept at it," she says.

With that, she curtsies again, and without my leave, turns and heads back into the stall.

Oh, she is not going to get away with this!

I was about to mount my horse, but this requires immediate intervention.

"I will not allow my servants to turn away from me without permission," I call after her.

She ignores me, and goes to attend to Sir Newton's horse.

"Shhhhh . . . it's alright," she whispers to the animal, and brushes her fingers lightly across his tan nuzzle.

"I can have you killed for this," I say, following after her.

"If you can catch me," she challenges.

I grip her arm.

"What do you mean by these games?" I ask, turning her toward me.

"We peasants don't have time for games. We work for each scrap of bread, each thread on our clothes, and if you relieve me of my duty here and have me banned, I will go back to working in the fields."

"Is that your preference?" I ask. My chest constricts.

Why are her eyes so big? And why does she look at me without a shred of fear?

"I am not allowed a preference." She bows to mock me and quirks a feisty eyebrow.

Does she think me a dullard? Incapable of understanding her meaning?

"You have rights when you do what you are told," I say. My voice is menacing as I hiss through my jaw which seems to be welded tightly together.

"Like yesterday?" she argues. "I checked your horse twice; once more than all of the others. And I gave your two horses the best of the oats, the cleanest stalls of all of them, even brought them apples from my farm, and I was blamed for a fungus which probably has festered for many moons before I ever laid a finger on this animal. Where was my choice when I had to find the means to pay for new hay? Where was my choice when I was told this morning by your page if I did not clean out the troughs and supply fresh water before you arrived, I would be whipped soundly?"

"I . . . I was not privy to these matters," I say, my voice shaky. My stomach is unstable and my palms sweat.

She takes a step closer, and my heart hammers through me, making my chest armor heave. And all because of the way her features twist, I am cowering. She is a small, feral creature.

It's a new phenomenon. Knights with swords can crash towards me, and I do not flinch, but this little woman with brown wind-swept hair, with hay-scent on her clothes, and a skirt too wide for her tiny torso, has me trembling as I back away.

"Are you blaming your page? How droll," she says, rolling her eyes.

"Please . . . I meant no harm," I say, my right hand going to my hilt on my left hip.

"Oh I'm sure you were up last night worrying about how my morning would fare," she replies.

"Even pigs have a soul," I blurt.

Where did _that_ come from? And why does my voice sound so soft and weak?

"Well, now I know how to class you, because you most certainly do not have a soul. But I should think it more suiting to put you in with the lot in the forest behind my house," she says, still stepping toward me.

I continue to back away, unsure if she's possessed with evil spirits. Is she a witch? She has certainly cursed my manhood to respond at her loose behavior with her shifting clothes.

I stiffen.

Nobody talks to me this way.

"What hides in the forest behind your house?" I ask, my voice shakier than I've ever heard before.

"The wolves. They eat scraps that even the pigs won't take. They are soulless demons, overruning all that is good," she spits.

And with that, she pulls open the stall door, and prepares the horse before her.

"You will be out in the arena in the next fifteen minutes, or I shall come back here and drag you by your hair," I say, trying to retrieve command of her.

"After you cut it with your dull knife, sir? How will you grab it if it is gone?" she taunts.

"Uungh! You are . . . the most upsetting woman God has ever allowed to roam the earth," I say, and mount Grayson. I throw my longsword on the ground for her to stow away for me while I joust.

She mutters something else I do not take heed of, and I race off to the arena, hoping I am not late.

If I am, Charles Brandon and his dreadful sister will make sure to take note and ridicule me accordingly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Wilder than Oats**

Fifteen minutes pass, and the brown-eyed shrew woman, daring to talk back to me, does not show her face in the arena.

Has she fallen into harms way?

Did she pull the same thing on Sir Newton and he cut her down?

Suddenly, my stomach is like the quaking ground when my horse thunders down a path. My mouth is dry.

If I treated her kindly, and didn't keep her from her duties, this would not have come to pass.

_She deserves it! Who does she think she is? You're a baron of the most lucrative lands in all of the isle._

I didn't ask her for my helmet; it was sitting on one of the shelves in the barn.

Instead, I borrowed one of Emmett's. His big head fills this thing, but it's loose on me and moves too much.

I can match him blow for blow in speed, strength and stamina, but I do not possess a boulder sized brow.

If this thing dislodges, I will be hurt.

Where is that brown-haired burdensome girl?

I look around, but she still remains missing.

Newton rides up on his stallion, and looks pleased with himself.

He sidles up to me before working his way to the opposite end. "Edward," he says, dipping his head as minimally as possible.

"Michael," I respond with the same deference to propriety.

He never was one for rules, but then I am not one to speak of it.

I may put on the proper etiquette when the times calls, but outside of the arena, I am not about to be shifted about for anybody without a crown on their head whether they are already knighted or not.

I answer to me, and nobody else. It matters not that Sir Newton is the top knight at court, and is here today to humiliate all of us squires into the dirt. He does not earn my respect.

Sir Brandon shouts down to the herald that we start.

The blonde woman I have seen around my sharp-tongued brunette horse-hand girl at the stables hands me my lance.

She's very beautiful, but I refuse to acknowledge it. I am aware she lies with Emmett.

He has not said as much, but we, each of us, follow the exploits of each knight.

It's in poor taste to pursue women another man has already laid claimed to, even if they are the hired help.

And she most definitely has been claimed by him several times.

I want to ask her where my little brown haired-woman is, but there is no time, and she may not be knowledgeable about her fellow maiden's whereabouts.

My hand grips tightly, and I lean forward, ready for the show.

Newton prepares and before lowering his visor, winks at me saucily.

The cad will pay.

I was going to allow him go two rounds before I unhorsed him so he could at least be spared a little of his vanity, but now I will show no mercy.

The flag is lowered, the horn rings and the dust immediately pounds up around me as Grayson charges straight ahead.

This is it.

I know I am being watched.

I will win.

There is no other outcome.

The sun sparkles off his shoulders, the tip of his helmet, and his shield.

My eyes squint to slits, but I can see clearly where his weakness lies.

His right shoulder is angled too far forward, which throws his center off balance.

The cocky fool.

He believes if I hit from the front he will not budge.

I have no intention of playing nice.

Nor do I let a man of his caliber forget who bested him.

The moment is at hand, and he is in my grasp.

Instead of allowing my lance to tip forward, I keep it up, and when his blow is about to glance off my shield, I thrust it upwards, and tip back.

He has struck his lance on the edge, and when his bodyweight pulls him forward because of it, I twist my torso to the side, and hit him from behind on his backplate with the tip of my lance.

The poor unsuspecting idiot did not see it coming. But how could he?

Nobody has ever braved such a move as this. Knights are never attacked from behind.

It has never been done.

I laugh and rock in my seat.

He screams so loud the crowd gasps.

I am sure he is thinking what I did was impossible.

My horse slows and I turn in time to see him flip over the front of his horse. He is nearly trampled under his horse's hooves.

Lucky for him he has an animal smarter than he, managing to avoid harming his rider.

Sir Newton rolls around in the dirt, groaning in pain.

He may not be able to stand for a few moments, and so I circle away from him and toward the stands to receive my due reward.

"That is not right!" Mary Alice Brandon screeches from the stands.

Charles Brandon laughs at his sister's reactions.

"All's fair in the dust and green in attaining knighthood," he says.

I trot closer, and pull to a stop.

The blonde horse-hand is at my side in an instant, and I lower my lance to her.

She takes it and runs off.

I lift my visor.

"So . . . ?" I ask Charles.

"So? I will make sure Henry knights you tonight first thing. That was worthy of being knighted twice," he says with a chuckle.

And so I leave Newton in the muck where he belongs and race back to the stalls to gloat at the brunette minx.

If I so demanded, she will shine my armor.

If I ask for a kiss, she will give me that too.

It is her duty now more than ever to bow down to me and kiss my boots.

Only problem—when I arrive back to the stall, my other horse is missing, along with the lass.

"I do not like this!" I hiss, and gallop off after the tracks she leaves behind.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Apples**

Damsels of her station do not ride horses. This is fact. I do not approve of them working in the stables as horse-hands either. It is unseemly.

And even if she can ride, she does it side-saddle, so she is no match for me.

I shall overtake her without it causing a moment of trouble.

I shall exact retribution on her for daring to steal my horse.

Oh yes, I will enjoy this.

"Kneel!" I shall say.

My palm will fit over the top of her head and as my knuckles spread over her raven-hair, I shall smile with my teeth bared.

The wind whips inside my helmet while I ride, since I have not closed the visor, but I have never felt clearer.

I will take whatever payment I need from her body.

No doubt she is knobby kneed, covered in moles and . . .

But her shoulder was flawless, and so was her fair, glistening brow. That brow my lips can taste if I so choose.

Her lovely, heart shaped face with plump pink lips that will quiver when I demand she bow ever lower, until her mouth is low and quiet.

"Aaagh! I do not like her," I say to myself, urging Grayson forward.

She is headed north—the tracks on the ground present the way.

I know this country well. Is she under my jurisdiction? In my county?

This gets infinitely better.

I am smiling with the thought of what I can do to her if she lies in my boundaries.

There will be nobody to keep me away.

If I choose to make her my wench, then so be it.

And her blind father won't be able to stop me.

My fingers flex on the reins, and my lips twitch. She will taste of me when this day is out.

I pass over into Kent county, and move by the first three hovels surrounded by swampy ground.

How have I never seen her before on my lands?

Oh yes, because this is marsh land, and I do not drag my horses through slosh and muck.

Today I will though.

The scent of the apple orchard ahead stirs my senses. My heart beats a rhythm not unlike the cadence of Grayson's hooves beneath me, only a little harder and faster. My breath matches the speed of the cantor.

She will feed my horse a full bushel while I take her in the fresh hay she no doubt hoards in her barn.

"Ush! Ush!" I hiss at Grayson.

I only ever use those sounds in battle, to exact the urgency of the moment.

Grayson whinnies and catapults forward.

Just as I'm cresting a small hill, and forging ahead, I see her.

She is tall and glorious on my horse, and riding like a man! Both legs of hers on either side of the saddle.

Who is this woman? And how does she even know to ride this way?

I blink in disbelief, but keep my pace steady.

"Oi!" I holler. "Girl! Come hither, now!"

Her head snaps in my direction, and she flees.

The chase is begun.

She digs her heels into Knicklom, my dark gray horse, with confidence and darts into the orchard where my view of her is hidden.

There are several yards between us, but I am an expert hunter; powerful enough to rival the King himself.

Tracks like Knicklom's are easy to follow, and it's only a matter of time before I run her down.

Knicklom is fast, but Grayson is faster, hence why he was my choice the last two days for the joust.

I hear the sound of her laughter flitting through the trees.

The apples shake in a tree up ahead, and I smirk.

She's ridiculous. Why not stand still if she is going to move the shrubbery around in such an obvious fashion?

"I'm coming for you!" I warn with a devious smile painting my lips. "You will not escape me!"

A much darker, huskier laugh from her, echoes around the greenery.

And then . . . Knicklom ambles out behind that tree, his mouth full of apple.

Where is she?

I slow down.

Does she hide in the canopy, surrounding me?

"I will stab my sword straight into each leaf if I have to. I will find you!" I insist.

This time she is silent.

And my insides are caged tight like the leather straps used on my armor! My breath is shallow and quick, and my legs clamp down hard on Grayson.

Each time I blink and she evades me, my breath grows hotter than my skin. I would breathe fire at this woman if I could.

I rip my helmet off, throw it to the ground with a loud clank, and duck down low on my horse to peer up into the branches.

It profits me nothing! She's wearing earth colors and blends in.

I am not amused by this game. My teeth gnash and my fists blanch as I strain to find her.

"You will pay for the hay in the stall tomorrow and the next day, and you will appear before me now before I thrash your hide and flay your spine right open with my blade!" I howl.

Nothing moves—nothing but me, as I continue to flounder and grind my teeth.

She hides like a bird in the treetops.

I brush aside the unripened apples. They are unlike her—she is ripe and ready for the taking.

My apple to bite.

To crush.

To juice and let drip down my chin.

I will spit out her seeds, for I have no need of them.

My eyes squint and continue to search.

How old is the lass?

I assess her age to be about eighteen years, and she's not been plucked—I swear I can smell her virginity. But she is ready for it.

And I am virile; ready to discipline her for cursing my manhood thusly.

It is stiffer than the trunks on these trees.

_Pluck her? No! She's beneath you!_

_She is ripe with suppleness._

But then . . . a rotten apple never gets plucked.

Oh, but I will savor her fluids, and pretend she is a savory wine.

"You are in egregious error if you think I shall go away empty-handed," I call.

No answer.

Not even a whisper of a breath is hinted on the wind.

She may be out of the orchard by now.

"And I do not refer to my two fine horses," I add.

Still there is no ruffle of her bird feathers in her nest.

I slide off my horse, needing a better view into the hearts of these trees.

Before I move on, I pluck off a green apple for Grayson and feed it to him.

He munches happily and moves along side my other trusted animal.

I know they will not stray.

They never do.

"You think you are brave and smart, but this will be so much the worse for you if you do not show yourself. I shall count to five and if you don't give this up at that time, then I cannot be held responsible for what might transpire between us. I only mean to talk to you, that is all," I speak falsely.

I search in vain for over an hour and leave so angered, I vow to burn down the entirety of her damnable orchard. Her juices can rot in hell!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Within the Stall**

I rise this morning, but the sun is my enemy.

The blackness of my mood is beyond foul from yesterday. Not only did I suffer through King Henry the VIII's bravado last night at supper and through the knighting ceremony, but I did not find that girl.

I was meant to return home last night after receiving my new title, but I remained—because of _her_.

She must be taught.

I wear my tightest breeches to keep my manhood tamed and to spite her. She will get no more rise out of me.

Nobody gets the better of me.

_But she undoubtedly did. You had to chase her, and she was not to be found . . ._

I grip my forearms, looking like the pious man I am known to be, even though I am alone and there is none here to attest to my saintly attributes. My eyes move across the room.

My pride will not suffer this.

It does not matter that a handful of fair maidens fawned over me last night and begged to be bedded.

It does not matter I was the talk of the kingdom after my feat of skill against Newton, who dared not show his visage.

The wine was satisfactory, the music moving, but it was all bland.

It was nothing more than distractions.

All night in my bed I tossed and stared into the night, thinking of where she might have stepped left when I stepped right.

I will find her today. There is no way to hide forever.

I sit up and toss the linens aside.

Where are my groomsmen? Have they caught her personal disdain for doing what they are told?

I get up and pace, my footfalls heavy.

She thinks I am gone and have forgotten, but she will not be the victor.

I am here. I wait in my chambers.

I do not call for any help though it is my habit to do such when they are not prompt enough for my liking.

Nobody must know what I intend on doing, so it is a sound plan to remain silent.

The sun is nigh up, and I will beat her to the knights' stables, where I did not place my horses last night. I placed mine with the common livestock.

She must think without a doubt I am gone.

I fight off a smile. My hands grow warm as I consider gripping her to my unarmored chest. She will be soft and pliant, and I will hard as stone, unyielding to her touch.

She will do nothing to my flesh. I command it—me alone!

I pull on my clothes, and prepare myself.

My sword and dagger are in place and my resolve solid.

This maiden does not know whom she has embittered.

But she will soon enough . . .

I don't even stop to use the chamber pot and relieve myself.

That can wait.

Ghosting through the hallways, I am light of foot, and buoyant of spirit.

Yes! Heat of womanly flesh—directly outside the castle—on these grounds.

She will be mine to do with as I please.

A smile graces my face no matter how much I will it away. It is in contrast to my burning, shifting mood.

I move unnoticed by guards, and find my way out to the stables where she will undoubtedly be working soon enough.

The door to Newton's stall creaks open as I pull gently, and I duck inside.

She likes this horse.

Almost as much as my Knicklom, but not quite, since she did not choose to steal it.

She does have good discernment in beasts, I will grant her that praise, but will keep it tucked inside my mind—not sharing it with her.

She deserves none such appreciation.

I huff at Newton's charger.

My horse is far superior to his.

Several moments later the faint patter of small feet approach.

I know it's her. Aye. I can smell her maidenhead swelling with her exertion, along with the rest of her flesh.

A yawn breaks free from her little frame and makes my face feel stretched by the rack as I wear an ever-wider smile.

She has none of the manners a young woman should possess.

Women do not loose their bodies like a man when they yawn. She does not observe this unspoken rule.

"Ohhhh, my little darlings, how are we this morning?" she calls after them as she makes her way inside.

"Isabella, is that you?" the blonde woman asks.

Great Lord in Heaven, I didn't bargain on her having company.

"Aye, Rosalie, it's me. You want me to go fetch the water?" she responds.

_Isabella?_ That is her name? It is not feisty enough. It brings no fire to my belly.

Not proper either, but then it should not surprise me.

"No, please, I'll go. My legs need to stretch after being cramped up under Emmett all night." Rosalie giggles and retreats.

"Quit bragging," Isabella complains to herself, and approaches Newton's steed.

This is my opportunity.

I rise to my full height, looming over the door and her.

She shrieks in fright, and flees.

Well, I might do the same if I was a tiny little insignificant woman.

But I do not allow it.

So, I set after her, my legs longer and faster than hers, and I overtake her as she tries to fly up a tree.

My God but she's faster than a bird when a limb is nearby.

"Ah, you are mine!" I grind through my teeth, as I wrench her away from the tree.

She kicks, flails and before she can scream, my hand is over her mouth, and I have her bound in my arms.

"You are coming with me," I snarl in her ear.

"Mmmmhhn," she yells through my hand and shakes her head, pleading for me to let her go.

"Time to learn how to be a good little horse-hand, and a maiden with manners," I hiss.

She struggles, claws at my arms, but I only chuckle.

Nobody's awake or around to hear her.

Only Rosalie, but she is far away and won't have any reason to think something is amiss.

My chambers are thick walled and away from most of the rest of the company.

A lot of the knights departed last night, so we will be alone.

And I will have fun exacting my revenge.

"Come little bird, and try my nest on for size," I say as I race through the corridors toward my chambers, where I shall lock her inside.

**A/N:**

**You may all thank, SunflowerFran, my beta for Harkham's Case, for one more chapter to end this night (or "knight" as the case may be) on. She's really liking this story and asked for more. Since I owe her for continually beta'ing for me (and many times with last minute notice), I figured I'd give her more. It's only fair.**

**Thanks for the follows, the reviews and the love!**

**Scarlett**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Temperament and Treatment**

I push the door open with my leg, and once we are inside my privy chambers, I toss her onto my bed.

She immediately scrambles off.

Without a concern, I lock the door tight.

Her face turns red and she shakes. A blood curdling scream emanates out of her.

I laugh, and then I join in with her caterwauling to prove a point.

That's when her eyes grow really wide. She shoves her fist in her mouth and bites down on it.

"Please . . . don't hurt me," she says.

"Like you had mercy on me yesterday? I gave you many a chance, and you were not wont to accept. Now you pay for your insolence," I say, stalking toward her.

She whimpers and hides her head in her arms, ducking down for the blow.

"I shall pluck you, little bird, and then we shall see how well you fly away when I call after you." My laughter settles low and rough in my belly.

She whispers something inaudible to herself.

My hands drift into her hair; it's softer than the downy fluff stuffed in my pillows, and finer than any foreign silk I've ever sampled.

"_Soft_," I murmur. My pants suffocate me as do my unbidden thoughts of where else there may be satiny hair on her body.

"Don't hit me, please!" she cries, muffled by her incessant tucking of her head inside her chest like a turtle.

"I don't hit women with my hands, but I will teach you a lesson you best not forget. Now, you will look at me, and kiss me like you want me; like you want this," I demand.

My fingers dig their way through her balled up torso, find her chin and tilt it up to me.

She shivers harder, and her eyes are clenched closed.

"If you do not look at me and make this nice, I shall be forced to do much more than this," I warn.

Her eyes flutter open, and the tension in her body intensifies.

The anguish is etched in her lined brow.

I run my fingers across it, and then thread them back through her hair, holding her head up so I can gaze down her.

"You like to play games, don't you, little bird?" My voice is husky, scratching its way out of my throat like my manhood tries to dig its way out of my breeches.

Damn her.

_I will not strain to have you!_

"No . . . I thought you were going to have me thrown off the grounds and banned, so I figured I would ride home and your horse would find its way back to you," she says.

"That is not what you were doing, and you know it. You want to be chased. And you want me to chase you, you damn little nymph. You think to torture me with madness like a siren, and keep me up nights in a row, thinking about you, about this," I say, my right hand suddenly out of her satin locks, and my fingers brushing across her lower lip.

Oh . . . So plump and moist like the tenderest venison I've ever wrapped my tongue around.

Her breath spills out in spurts, and loud gusts of wind.

The way her chest is pounding and her body shaking, I think she might expire.

_Get her on the bed. Then if she passes out, you do not have to catch her and inadvertently feel her breasts upon your chest._

"Do not move, or so help me . . ." I drift off, mesmerized by the feel of her soft lip pressed under the pad of my thumb.

It's luscious and so ripe. But I was wrong. Not like meat—more like a fat berry to suck, tease at the flesh until it splits and sweetens my tongue.

"I will keep still," she whispers.

"If you decide to move, this will be . . . rough for you," I warn.

She blinks her eyes slowly, and her cheeks color with the highest blush of red I've ever seen.

It's delectable, like her shoulder I happened to see that day. So many colors on this maids body. I daren't think upon the raven hair hidden beneath her skirt.

I scoop her up, carry her over to my mattress, and spread her out in front of me.

"What are you going to . . . do?" she breathes.

"I shall do whatever I like, and if you try to stop me, it will be brutal," I say. My hands tingle like a fire creeps up my veins from touching her electric skin.

I crawl over the top of her, and she does not shift or blink.

"Good. Stillness is good," I commend her.

A tear spills down her cheek, and I catch it with the same thumb that felt that lovely lip I want to taste.

I lean forward ever so slowly, dip my head down and seal my lips against hers.

A quiet gasp spills out of her, and I continue.

My legs now burn hotter than my hands.

_Witch. She burns me from the inside, casts spells on me so all I can see is her._

She lies completely still, and does not kiss me back, as she should.

I growl, even though that is how a maiden should act. But I do not like it.

"Kiss me, Isabella. I demand you comply," I say between breaths.

"I do not . . . know how," she says with all the meekness of a gentle dove.

"You need not know how. You follow what my mouth does to you. You feel the pleasure, and that is all you do," I say.

She does not realize I am unaware of what I am doing either. This is new to me.

We try again, but this time her mouth moves with mine and breathes in ragged, choppy breaths.

"That's good; you are a fast learner," I say with a smile.

Her head tilts forward off the bed, levitating for a moment, reaching for my lips.

"Me thinks this minstrel likes to be kissed," I jest.

She scowls, then wraps her hands around my head and pulls my mouth down to hers.

Before I know what has become of us, I'm giving her portions of my body weight, and she is squirming under me.

I think she needs lessons only in how to cease her torment of me.

Maybe I am wrong, though.

More.

_Give me more, maiden. Give me all I desire!_

_No! You must not! Stop!_

I meant to scare her, for I presumed she was intact where her virtue was concerned, but this heated kissing suggests otherwise, and she does not seem afraid of me in this moment and circumstance.

Perhaps I am not as good a judge of integrity as I think myself to be.

This is troublesome.

She wants more. Her lips are pursed, and she is attempting to bring me further down to her, but I do not lie with commoners.

"You have soft lips my lord, and manly, strong hands. I like the feel of them," she sighs. Her head tips back, revealing the snowiest throat.

My tongue curls back in my mouth, but my hands brush along her jaw and her hairline.

She whimpers, and I feel her toes curling.

_Do not taste her there. You will not stop, and will try to run it along the upper-curve of those sumptuous duckies._

I look away. Her slender white neck, fair shoulders and misted brow are there for another—not this nobleman.

I stop stroking her cheeks and roll away from her.

"This is not . . . how this is supposed to be," I say, flummoxed by her reactions.

"What did I do wrong?" she asks, her soft voice tremulous.

"You do everything wrong," I snap, angered at myself for not maintaining authority and control over her.

"I . . . I _do_?" she asks, Her eyes flood with shame and tears.

"Yes. This is precisely why I am shoving you forthwith out of my chambers. Make sure you do not tell a soul about this. For if you do, I shall come back for you and seize your father's lands." I wipe my face with my hands and take in a deep lungful of air to calm my weary spirit.

My fingers smell of her: apples, hay, and an earthy, pleasant scent with a hint of a floral mixture I have never had the pleasure of inhaling before.

I think I would like to add it to my bathing water, for it is truly divine.

But then I would have to find a way to keep my manhood tamed all the while.

"Who would I tell? Nobody likes you anyway," she says, jumping off the bed, having the last word, and leaving in haste.

"I do not like her," I repeat to myself, wagging my head back and forth. "Serpents are better company than she."

_So stop touching your lips now . . . _Sir _Edward!_

**A/N:**

**Forgot to mention in the last chapter that Anne Boleyn is known to have shocked people from time to time by ignoring the rules of propriety and riding like a man, rather than side-saddle, so I based that move for Bella off Anne. Hee hee! I'm sneaky like that.**

**I'll be updating tomorrow and Saturday on this story, and then after that, it will consistenly be updated on Monday, Wednesday and Friday's so I'm posting this one on the same day as my other stories.**

**We're talking about this story and others of mine on our facebook group, World of Play: Scarlett's Stories (remove the spaces) www . Facebook #!/groups/157946840950900/ Come join us if you want to tell me what a nut-job I am in a group setting. I'm happy to sit in the middle while you prod me with sticks. It gets the creative juices flowing even more, believe it or not.**

**Scarlett**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Hallowed Be Thy Name**

Traveling home seems nothing short of drudgery, but I do it.

There is nothing to keep me at Windsor castle. I need to be home to manage the affairs of my people.

It is most vexing how a particularly small, unattainable brown-haired _tenant_ of mine, enters my mind faster than I can take a breath.

The tingling feeling in my lips has faded on the road home, but I do not forget it.

I have never kissed a fair maiden before, I wasn't interested, but this one was different somehow. Now all I can ponder is kissing her again.

I chanted to myself, making my brain believe I would know how it would be, what to do do and how to feel.

But all of it was wrong.

There was a lack of control. My manhood took possession of my spirit, but I am valiant, and withstood her sorcery in the end.

I endured. It was difficult, but as a knight, I was stalwart to my oaths as a gentleman.

My hands shake.

Dark hair, dark eyes, and dusky lips hamper my vision. My hands shake.

_Ride back. Attain her flesh in your hands once more. Find what lies beneath that bodice. Those duckies can be yours._

I am unhinged.

My head lowers, and I stare at the filth in the gutters. That is what pollutes my mind, only worse, for I beckon and bid it welcome.

Dark, soft hair. Fine, creamy skin. Moist mouth, panting with flesh writhing.

_Stop. It. You do me wrong!_

I shake my head and close my eyes.

My destrier knows where to bring me. It knows where I abide when I am myself—not this beast caged inside a man's shell.

Knicklom is tamer than I. I should be the one ridden back to my castle.

Isabella. Tiny Isabella, sinking into my mattress. Wondering why I stop.

_I had to!_

_You were in charge. You could have done all you liked to her, and there would be no retribution for it. Not one soul cares when a commoner is taken against their will._

_But it was her _will _to allow it._

_Ahhhhh!_

I quicken the pace. If I am home, this madness will stop.

_Next time, she will finish it for you._

_That's unseemly!_

_Take charge!_

Maybe because I thought I was in command; I lost it, but then, she did. She really took over.

Women do not do that.

Nor do they ride my horse like a man.

Neither do they talk to me the way she did.

She needs to be tied to my cart and whipped soundly, and then I can kiss the biting sting of each wound away.

It will all be better—each red lash across her alabaster skin will be met with my insistent mouth.

"Not in a hurry, huh?" Emmett asks me, as he saunters by.

I crush the leather strap between my fist, ignoring the sound of the material rubbing abrasively.

"The day is barely upon us. What awaits my presence, other than servants and complaints?" I say.

"You are certain it has nothing to do with a woman you took a fancy to while you were there?" He smiles. "It would be good this time for you to allow yourself to be merry."

"You know I have no understanding of your puzzling words," I say, smiling to myself. He is closer to the mark than he knows, but I will not divulge my secret, even though he might understand, since he takes Rosalie to his chambers.

Isabella is unique. I can think of no other woman like her.

He snickers at the forlorn look on my face, and pulls out an apple. The big oaf polishes it on his sleeve, and before he can take a bite, I swipe it from his hands and do the deed for him.

Apples—I will never look at them the same again. And I may have to plant an orchard on my own personal estate.

"That's my apple," he whines.

"Those teeth marks belong to me, so I would state the contrary," I say, laughing at his expense.

"Are you returning in the fall for the tournament games?"

"Was I granted a knighthood?" I bait him, raising a brow.

"I know not. You barely seemed to have a presence of mind when the blades touched your shoulders. What ails you?" he asks.

"I have nothing ailing me." I shift my shoulder away from him to hide my reactions. Why this persistent barrage of questions from him? I wanted to ride home in peace. At this pace, it will take me three hours instead of two, before I see the doors to Leeds.

"Even the chamber ladies noticed. Nay, they did more than notice. It was rumored you are love struck and pining for a mysterious maiden." He moves his horse over enough out of my way so I cannot strike him.

"You should know better than to listen to wagging tongues," I say, not bothering to state there is no love interest. "Especially when it comes to the frivolous things bored minstrels say."

He laughs. "Yes, I suppose I should know better; just as I should not continue to bring maidens back to my chambers and believe their fair words of love."

"You don't believe them?" I balk.

"No, no," he says, waving his hand in the air. "Except some of them are much more convincing than others. And I confess . . . it . . . confuses me from time to time."

A look of sorrow shadows his countenance.

"They are skilled in the art of deception to get a man to notice them," I say, trying to convince him to not think anymore on it.

"Yes, I am aware, but there are times . . . Rosalie, she speaks such words to make me believe she has a fair heart, and I do not feel brave and large when she shares them with me. I feel as though she puts me in a ball in the palm of her hands and pets me, protecting me from harm. But that's childish, is it not?" His laugh is shaky.

"You do not sound like you believe your own words," I observe.

He stops his horse and looks me in the eye.

"If I could determine that her words were true, I would not be riding with you. I would marry that damsel right now," he says, his words stronger than his brawn.

I stall my steed too, and we face each other directly.

"You cannot be so taken with her that you would consider marrying a common whore." I shake my head, because that is what he's doing, but I can see it sketched all over his face. He means it.

"Surely, I shan't marry any one of my own choosing, so why must I shut all hope of love out? I can take her to be my mistress when I am married, and until then, I can feign that she is true to me and is with no other," he says. "I can pretend she is my wife when I hold her to my chest at night."

"Emmett, this is madness!" I cry. "It is one thing to have a casual acquaintance with her and slip up every now and again, but you do not sound in your right mind."

"That's because she is in my every thought and deed. No space for anything else. I have to tell myself that she does not want to run away with me." His wistful smile makes my stomach hurt.

What has happened to my friend?

Another bewitching? Are these women related?

"My great almighty God, you cannot mean you put these thoughts forth to her? _Run away_? To where? To what end? You would have to forfeit your lands!" I cannot listen to this. This is insanity. I urge my horse into a lope and create a distance between us, for I am not able to comprehend what he is even considering.

He catches up quickly. "Don't fret. She thought I was in jest, and she laughed. I do not delude myself into thinking she could ever love me or want to leave," he says, mournful.

"Why do you _need_ love? You have power, you have money; you are a knight and may take what you will. Love will slow you down. Take whatever wife is chosen by your goodly parents, and have children to protect and carry on the family name. That is all we can ever desire." I give him a stern look and use my harshest tone I dare to.

"But not you. You desire more than that, do you not?" he goads me.

"I know not of what you speak. I'm content with _my_ lot," I huff, and move Knicklom into a gallop. Ever since _she_ rode this horse, I feel much more attached to him; like his value has increased.

My dolt of a friend catches up to me once more.

"I know of your vain ambition and your current dislike of the King and his talk of reformations to the faith," he whispers loudly when he's at my side again.

"Treason is treason even when it is spoken quietly," I say, hoping to silence him.

How does he know this?

I have not spoken of my desire to denounce the King and take his place. Is he to be trusted? Only Jasper knows, and he is the one making preparations in the shadows and silent corners in court.

Henry the VII should never have taken the throne. It was not his rightful place.

Masen's have been in line for three generations with our connections to the Plantagenet, Yorkist line, and I am the rightful person to rule and reign.

"Regardless of what you believe of me, sir, I am your man. When duty calls, I plan to be right next to you, leading your men into battle," he says, conspiring with me when I do not ask him to.

I nod and ride on, praying it will end this conversation.

I shall think on this tomorrow, after I wash the scent of apple and hay off my skin.

After I find a way to purge my mind of a little bird that flew away before I could truly infiltrate her nest.

**A/N:**

**Picture of Leeds Castle (where Edward lives). It is considered one of the loveliest and most romantic castles in England: **** www . leeds-castle land . php** **and **** www . /castles/Europe/Western_Europe/United_Kingdom/England/Leeds-Leeds/Leeds . Htm**

**Windsor castle (one of Henry VIII's residences he lived in quite a bit and it's quite expansive, by the way): en . Wikipedia wiki/Windsor_Castle **

**Remove the spaces on web addresses.**

**The distance between Windsor Castles, in Berkshire, where Henry VIII resided and Leeds Castle in Kent, where Edward lives, is 55.6 miles. It takes 2 minutes to ride 1 mile at 30 mph, so it would take 110 minutes approximately by horse which equals a little less than 2 hours if they don't stop. Horses can gallop at 30 mph, and since Edward's horse is a thoroughbred, destrier, this is not a problem.**

**Just some boring trivia for ya. :D**

**Scarlett**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Stone Walls and Empty Halls**

"I care not at all about what I wear," I insist to mother as she clucks at me about attending the feast at Masen Manor tonight.

"Tut, tut, you will dress appropriately; some woman might catch your eye, and you will want to be able to impress. Believe me, you will thank me," she says.

She lays out a golden brocade vest with a matching tunic. The rich colors almost hurt my eyes.

"Do you not think she might care to know what is in my head, rather than what adorns my body?" I point to the offensive garments. "These are too . . . ostentatious. Not a soul will be able to get past them and hear _me_."

She laughs and waves her hand at me, her wrist loose and light. "You have no eye for fashion. Besides, you will wear much more suffocating clothing when you attain the throne, so you best get accustomed to it now." Mother runs her fingers over the fabric, admiring the shine and sparkle of it. "And would it hurt you to learn to speak to women with a little more lilt and chivalry in your tone and actions? My Lord, because you are a brute on the field, you think it acceptable to bring it to the dinner table? That is not the way of gentry."

I bow, mocking her but with no protest of word. It is my desire to show her I can fit in wherever she deems appropriate to present me. Why does all of this pomp and ceremony matter? I belong on the battlefield, commanding my men and taking what is mine.

"Did you make it to mass while you were away?" she asks in that nagging, mothering tone, I despise.

"No, madame; I was much too busy making sure to acquire my titles for future . . . endeavors," I say.

"You could have at least attended to a barber. Your hair is longer than ever, and it is most unbecoming," she says, her eyes narrowing at me.

She attempts to get on tip toes and tame my hair with her tugging, pulling, aggrieved fingers.

"Ow! My roots do not like such brutal treatment. You would do best to stop, Mother, before I am forced to lose my manners tonight and make a mockery of the Masen name," I tease.

She laughs, and loses interest in a battle against my hair she knows she shall never win. Her hands fly up in the air. "It is hopeless. You have the hair of a windswept flighty bird."

I snort. "Bird, you say?" I run my fingers over my bristly chin. "There is a bird that is hard to catch . . . Maybe she might be attracted to my plumage."

"You speak in riddles, son, and I do not have time for such trivialities. Can you manage to dress yourself, or do I need to send for one of your pages?"

"I can lift my arms over my head and put that scratchy thing on by myself," I say, bowing.

"You wear clean breeches too, and I do not want to hear how overly-warm you are in these . . ." she pauses to stare at the garments with a wistful smile once more ". . . most attractive pieces." She turns her grin at me. "My word, I could swear you have grown another two inches while away, and have put one more muscle. You are not a lad anymore, but truly an adult man. I think you might be taller than the King of England now."

I smile. Yes, I think I have changed from youth to full-fledged man while away from her this last year, and I do think to tower over Henry. Where there was once smooth skin on my body, there is now even areas of manly hair, and a much longer, stronger frame.

She looks me over one more time. "Bathe, then dress. My adult son needs to find out who his prospects are. After all, you are now of the age of consent."

Truthfully, I am a year over consent. Being twenty-two and unmarried is almost scandalous for a man of my means.

But I could not be bothered over the last few years to slow down and think about giddy, gossipy biddies. Mother's job is to find somebody for me. It is of no consequence to me who she chooses. They are all the same, and tonight is bound to be an endless stream of cows with tight laced stomachers in place, being paraded in front of me, while I try to appease my parents into thinking I have interest in any of them.

I wonder if any of them will smell of apples or hay?

A snicker escapes me, and I have to choke back the full-riotous laugh.

_Nobody smells like her, and you know this . . . _

Will any of them have her piercing eyes, that look reminiscent of the dark, haunting hills and vast mountains I have seen abroad?

Will any of them have hair as soft as downy, silky fluff that is almost a puff of cloud; impossible to really hold, but only skim in passing?

_Will any of them dare to steal your horse or use a sharpness of tongue in a moment of truth?_

No, I dare say none of them will be as bold as brass or as quick to fly up a tree. If I mean to kiss them, they will go along, and I will be none the wiser if they merely tolerate or even despise me.

It is a farce—a farce I loathe.

In a passive protest, I ignore the hot bath already prepared for me, do not wash up even one portion of my skin. I step outside to find some hay to brush across my skin.

When I am done, and even though I am a little itchy now, I breathe deeper. My head is a pool rippling with images of Isabella, but like all water—it will calm.

I scratch my skin where the hay brushed me. It will not be a problem to be itchy. This fabric mother has chosen is beyond rough in texture. The entire garment should be tinder for my fire. It does not speak to the "brute" as she labeled me—the beast who will don it.

"Aaagh, where is Knicklom and the fickle girl to talk to when I need them?"

I idly wonder what it would be like to ride side-by-side with her dressed in the comfort of clothes of my choosing for her and myself included.

My hands pull the dreaded clothes on, and I pace, desiring an apple.

And not the kind that grows on a tree.

She is my apple.

At times she is my bird.

She is Isabella, an ever-changing siren.

And. She. Is. Mine!


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: Make Merriment but do not Wine**

"How many of those have you had?" Jasper whispers in my ear at the table.

"Not enough. Not one of these ladies has turned delightsome in my vision," I say, leaning forward for another goblet of claret.

"You mother is not well pleased with your imbibing," he warns.

Mother scowls from across the table as she whispers and giggles with the highly sought after Baron Wycliff's daughter, Lauren.

I do not think to like her. She has a meanness of spirit about her, and not the kind that can be broken in like a wild stallion.

I take a deep gulp, hoping this will be the cupful that helps me to bolster my spirits so I can endure the remainder of the night.

At this moment, I would much prefer a crossbow be held to my temple over this mockery.

Lauren smiles at me and her eyes twinkle, but it's more a glint of malice.

She does not know me; therefore she cannot like me.

Aye, all she sees is a man large in stature with money, lands, titles and a name she wants.

"I suppose you are going to say she is not handsome enough for you?" Jasper whispers.

"When I can get past her pit viper hiss she emits as she speaks, then I will let you know what she looks like to me," I say.

I pile up my plate with more pheasant and pine-nut pudding.

The wine is exceptional tonight. I wonder if they added any apples?

The thought makes me snort, and delve deeper into my head where I see nothing but a lass riding a horse more confident than most of my soldiers.

Truly this woman is a siren, calling me back to her.

I have no care to stay here, so I rise up and shove away from the table.

"Where are you going?" Mother blurts.

"To bed. I am away from here. Goodnight, Mother, Father," I say, bowing.

"Sit down!" Father roars. "This feast is in honor of your knighthood, and you will stay until the last candle has been spent!"

I sit with a resounding thunk, and the chair wobbles.

My head drops forward. I do not want Lauren to look at me. For if she does, she will not see a man who can play the part he must. She will see a man who seeks to stop at nothing but a crown, and does not care who he takes down along the way.

Including her.

She means nothing to me.

So why look? She will see nothing good there.

My eyes water. It is the smoke from the candles before me. Nothing more.

My stomach clenches. Maybe the meat was spoiled?

Nothing at all to look at here, so I divert my glance away.

But then Isabella is a blackened soul too, so maybe she is the right mate for me.

The meal is finished, and music plays through the hall.

This part I can do. I know how to dance, but it's the conversing part I do not care for.

"Dear Edward, come and say hello to this fine young lady," Mother calls.

I do my duty and step to her side.

"How fare thee this night?" I ask with a bow. I take her hand and kiss it.

These hands are soft, milky white, but they do not smell of apples, nor do they know how to hold a rein and command a horse, or a beast of a man, like me.

"The night is sultry and hot, but I think that is good," Lauren retorts, and already she's so stuffy and haughty, I want to take my horse whip to her.

I force a pleasant smile.

"Dance with this woman before she collapses from the heat," Mother suggests.

"Would you care to?" I ask, battling a grimace.

"I would never turn down a knight of your character," she says.

I want to roll my eyes. Instead, I blink it away.

She believes the rumors about me—that I have bedded many a maiden.

I quiet a laugh. The day I took Isabella to my chambers was a first.

But then I am thrown in with the likes of Emmett and Jasper, so I am assumed to be of their caliber in regards to wooing women and lifting their skirts at every turn.

"Do you look forward to the summer?" she asks.

Her idle chat is irksome. My hand clenches into a fist, but I must release it to hold her as we dance.

"No, madame, I do not. The summer is slow and tedious," _like you_, "and there is not much to do but hear complaints from my tenants about their crops being insufficient." I bow and take her hand in mine.

I hear Mother tsk behind me. She's listening. Always listening.

Lauren barely lets me lead as I hold her and move her around the floor in a jaunty dance.

She does not move well; too stiff and lanky.

I do not like her. It matters now how flawless her milky-white skin may be. Nor do I care if she had an ample bosom.

"Maybe you should tell them to keep their complaints to themselves? My father does not let the beggars, thieves, or peons, come to his doors at all. They must wait until he comes to them in the fall and spring. Twice a year is more than sufficient for them to make their bellyaches known, and pay their tribute," she says.

And then I see what I must do. Yes, I can do this.

Isabella will never arrive at my door. I cannot imagine her ever complaining about anything, or even having the desire to trust me to do much about it. But I can go to her. I can do it under the guise of attending to my tenants. What would be the cause for alarm if I was to arrive and ask her to report back on the state of the farm she tends to?

A smile spreads across her face.

"You are laughing at me!" she says, smiling, but it does not grace her eyes.

"Oh, I never smile at one of your station," I say, take a bow and leave.

She is left gaping after me, along with my mother who is crowing behind me to return.

Father will understand.

My lands need me, and so do my tenants.

Especially the ones with apples to be picked.

**A/N:**

**Thank you so much for the reviews. I read each one. Next update is on Wednesday…**

**Scarlett**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: Forging New Pathways**

After the feast ended, Father visited me and yelled at me for hours; never growing hoarse. I lied and said I was unwell, and then Mother came in to scold him for endangering my health.

I smiled all that night as I went about making preparations for travel.

Isabella will be surprised. Oh yes. This will be a way to corner her; I will gain command of the situation and clip her wings so she cannot flit away.

Nicklom and Grayson are well fed and pawing at the ground. They anticipate our departure.

"You cannot wait to see her either, can you?" I ask Nicklom, brushing him with long strokes. "How did she feel with her legs around you? Was it nice? Did she wrap her skirts around her slender legs so she didn't get rubbed raw by you? Did she dig in her bare heels? I wager she did; like a wild banshee in the night. Did she smell likes apples, and you loved it? Did you think her a big basket of food for you?" I smile as he huffs, ready to leave. "Well, she is mine to partake of, not yours. So when you see her, you do willingly step aside, but first . . . Teach me how I can make her like me the way she likes you. Do you think she might like to take a ride with me?"

Grayson brushes his nuzzle up against my arm impatiently.

I pull an apple out of my satchel for both of them.

"She has a lot of apples. Plenty for all of us, and we need not worry about sharing. But she is mine. You do not have any claim to her," I say, teasing.

More scratching of hooves to the earth, and I cannot judge them for it. I can barely contain my excitement as well.

She is truly that delectable.

"Do you remember the way?" I ask Nicklom, and set aside the brush.

I mount him without another word, make sure the reins for Grayson are secured, and we ride away.

Taking the long route is prudent, so that I do not have to pass by Masen Manor and be questioned about my journey.

This means it will take me four hours, instead of three, but it will be well worth it.

The day is pleasant enough, but my insides are hot, filled with rankness. One moment I envision kissing her and using soft hands, and in the next, I am yelling, pushing her out of my sight for making me so desperate for her.

As it happens, I can barely keep from running my horses into the ground, so I arrive in just under three hours. The horses are not friendly to me as I keep denying them a moment to rest or water.

Soon enough they will be at the stream by her home and they can graze, laze about and recuperate.

Perhaps I will stay the night, and they can stay in the stalls where she cared for them before?

The scent of apples illuminate the senses, and I sigh. "Mmmm . . . very pleasant," I mutter to myself.

I lean forward, pat Nicklom's neck and whisper, "Run, my friend. Take me to her as swiftly as you can!"

My heels dig in.

Nicklom does not falter, nor weary, and within moments, I am pulling up to the edge of the orchard.

The horses are whinnying, hoping for a nibble.

I dismount and pluck a few for both of them.

They are most satisfied with their treat as I lead them down to the water.

I turn to gaze on the backside of the property. It is quaint and in need of some repair, but it looks like a cozy place to dwell.

When I turn back to the water, contemplating maybe washing a little before attempting a visit, I see her.

She is a ways off, sitting on the bank with her skirts pulled up around her knees, her slender, pale legs, digging in the water.

Ohhhhh . . . that shoulder was an indicator of what the rest of her body will be—fair, flawless and full of dips and curves.

Without any preamble whatsoever, I am marching straight along the edge of the waterline to her.

Her mouth hangs open in shock when she sees me, and she makes no move to cover herself up.

She is wearing another shirt that is overly-large on her petite body, and her shoulders are bare.

I should look away. This is not befitting of a knight to gaze on a woman in a state of undress, but I do not care.

I came to see her, and see her I shall.

And the more I see of her, the better for me.

"Good morrow to you, Isabella," I call out.

"What the devil do you mean by coming here?" she asks, suddenly standing and backing deeper into the water.

Her skirts are too big and they droop into the stream, sopping her to the knees. She gathers the fabric up as best she can.

"I mean to find out the state of your affairs on this property," I reply.

Her legs sparkle in the late-morning sun, and she glows like an unearthly, powdered creature.

I lick my lips as I stare at her legs. Never have I seen a woman's lower-half before. Or at least not any legs I wanted to see.

"You do not need to vex yourself in traveling here," she says, moving ever-further into the water.

How does she always escape me?

"Does it trouble you to see me?" I ask. My heart stops.

_She is afrighted. You are no gentleman._

"Yes. I am out here to bathe, and it is not right of you to be here," she scolds.

"By all means, wash, and I shall turn away," I say, smirking.

"You do not think I am feeble in the brain enough to believe that, do you? For if you think that, you most definitely should not be the owner of any land other than your own," she says, her tongue sharp as ever.

She tries not to fall as her feet clumsily feel around the creek bed for safe spots to walk on.

I laugh. "My little bird, you do like to scratch with those talons and mean to cut me with your sharp beak. But I have a little secret to share. Birds do not fly well when wet," I say, and then without further ado, I race out in the water after her, and toss her in.

She screams when she comes up, but it's not in anger.

My little bird is as adept in the water as she is in the air, and swims away, laughing so loudly, and gregariously, that I have no choice to stroke after her.

"And my mother says I do not know how to greet guests who come to visit me!" I howl with laughter.

I swish my hands through the water, grasping for anything of her.

"Lest you forget, I do not have visitors, so I do not have to hold to any conventional behaviors," she states.

To my delight, I clamp my large hand around her ankle and drag her through the water back to me.

"Come back little bird, I need you to show me the way of the wild," I tease.

"You are wilder than the wolves, as I have said before. Let me be," she says, swatting at my hand, and flailing around.

I run my other hand up her curvy calf, and this slightly frigid water, does not matter any longer.

I am warm. Very warm.

She gasps, "Unhand me! That is vile and wrong! You may be used to having your pick of the women in the stands after a jousting tournament, but I am not one of those for your taking!"

_Smaaaaack!_

She slaps my face, and suddenly I am not warm, I am _hot_.

I am hot for her, and the pursuit has just burned me like a jousting match, where I win at all costs.

"I do not care for those ladies, and I do not know what I have done to offend you, little bird, but let me right the wrong," I plead, swimming after her.

My God, she is fast, but I have the breadth of shoulders and expanse of chest she does not possess.

"Stop! Please! Don't hurt me!" she cries in anguish, truly frightened.

I watch her run out of the water and directly to the house.

The door slams shut behind her, and I am left dumbfounded.

"What did I do?" I ask myself.

Not one to take a loss with ease, I drag my soggy self out of the water and go after her to find out the matter she takes with me.

Surely, she did not think I would force myself upon her?

If that was the intent, I would have done that in my chambers the last time I held her captive.

I do not understand her fierce reaction to our lighthearted play.

"You will explain yourself to me," I say aloud, determined to have answers.

I will stay all day and night and knock down her door, if that is what it requires.

**A/N:**

**There's still room for you over on our facebook group, World of Play: Scarlett's Stories. (Remove spaces) www . Facebook #!/groups/157946840950900/**

**Thank you for your kind reviews. I wish I had time to answer them all, but since I'm about to publish my Henry VIII story, Hart Coursing: Hounding Anne Boleyn, this weekend, my time is very limited.**

**Scarlett**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: Small Favors to Big Souls**

I pound my fist on the door, hoping it will splinter in half so I have a reason to stay and repair it.

No answer.

"Isabella, please, I do not mean to harm you!" I holler through the warped, knotted wood of the back door.

"Go away!" she cries through the barrier.

Something crashes inside, and that is all I must hear to warrant action on my part.

If she's hurt, I will not forgive myself.

I step back, and slam my sodden foot into the wood, but it does not buckle.

So, I retreat a few paces and then ram my shoulder into the heart of the door.

It creaks, but to not avail.

This time, I aim for the joint near the latch, and not only does it bust, but the door swings so wide it smacks into the wall behind, and dents it.

"Isabella . . . Are you . . . do you need my service?" I yell, looking around the room for her.

She is not here.

"Isabella! Speak to me! Speak to your knight!" I roar.

A shuffling of feet approaches from over my right shoulder.

"She left. You did not hear her because you were too busy trying to turn my house into kindling," a man says to me, with a dog at his side.

It is a mangy mutt, but seems loyal enough.

"Where has my little bird, my Isabella, gone?" I stop breathing so I may hear the answer.

"_Your_ Isabella?" He chuckles. "She does not belong to anybody, much to both of our dismay." He squints, but sees nothing. His eyes fail to focus.

This is the blind . . . _father_?

She cannot possibly be the daughter of his loins; for, he is not much older than I.

"Are you the father she speaks of?" I ask.

"I am." He reaches out for the chair to his right.

I think to help him, but am too rattled by his presence.

"Why does she call you her father? How old are you, man?"

"I am not her father in a familial sense, but I did help her when she lost her parents. She was in the orphanage from the time she was ten years of age, and I helped to raise her," he answers. "Now she looks after me, because I am foolish enough to lose my sight."

"Foolish enough? Did you do something besides sin to warrant this troublesome problem?" I have a fair idea of how he came to be blind. He lusted after this girl, and God could not abide it.

"I am a priest, and my sight was never sharp. After reading late into the night for years to study the word of God, they dimmed until the candle of my vision was all burned out. Call it overzealous I suppose." He shrugs.

"What is your name?" I am creating quite a puddle on his floor, but he's unaware without his eyesight, so I pay it no heed. Although, a part of me feels guilty over the fact Isabella will most likely have to clean up the mess I am making.

"Father Jacob Black," he says proudly, his shoulders pulling back so his fairly large chest is on full display.

He is dressed as a commoner.

"Do you still serve as a priest?" I stare at him and consider how this man might appear to her.

Does she like the way of his rough hewn features? What of his muscular arms? Does she find them attractive?

My eyes narrow and my chest aches.

"Only when my parishioners will let me. I only work acts of service when my hound, Paul, here, will accompany, and when Isabella will assist me."

"You have no right to have a young maiden here alone by yourself when you are a man of God forbidden the pleasures of a woman," I reprimand him. "As the owners of this land, I will not tolerate this. You must find lodging elsewhere, and I will rent this property to somebody else who is more capable and responsible than yourself."

He laughs. "You are quite the ill mannered spoiled child, aren't you?" He smiles. "I have parchments from before your existence, stating this land and this property are never to be taken from the Black line. My father built this place, and he was under the service of King Henry the VII. When my father died in battle, it was writ and foresworn this land was ever to be mine and my posterities." His chest heaves with exertion.

"The posterity you mean to have illicitly with Isabella?" I press my hands to my sides so I can forebear in knocking him over for being so careless with Isabella's soul.

He laughs. "You do not come here to find how I am managing, but come here to take her for yourself." The dog hops at his right, and ather Jacob reaches down to pat its back lovingly.

"Try as you might, she will not go with you. She means to go back to the nunnery after I no longer need her, or after I expire," he explains.

"But you could live a very long while," I say through my clenched teeth.

"Yes, that is the will of God and mine, and she has vowed to stay and help me until I tell her to go."

"You will tell her to go today. You will tell her that her noble service is no longer required. I will pay for you to have all of the field-hands you need to run this place. And if it so please you, I will get you servants and cooks, and you will never need her again," I offer. I nod. This is fair and just. More than he could ever hope to have on his own.

His chuckle turns dark, and his smile menacing. "Do you think I raised her to be nothing but a harlot to the likes of you? No, no, no." He shakes his head violently. "She is the most delicate flower I have ever known, and if I can't have her, then no man will. She will stay at my side until she is mine, of her own free will and choice. And when she comes to my bed, I will denounce my already stripped title as priest. If God does not want me, then I will find a way to take what he has dangled in front of my face. I do not need my sight to know how beautiful and radiant she is. I can feel it by her presence, by her tone of speech, her brush of touch when she comes near me," he says.

"I will kill you dead where you sit! She _will_ leave!" I snarl.

"Kill me, and see how long it takes for her to fly away, your 'little bird,' which you cannot hold. She has to come to you, for if you try to capture her against her will, she will never truly be yours, and she will never be happy." He leans back in his chair and folds his arms over his chest. His arms flex. He is smug and most pleased with his monologue.

"I do not care if she is happy. It is _my_ happiness, _my_ needs which must be met!" I howl.

And that's when I hear it—a slight, timid gasp behind me.

I turn to see the horror and disgust on her face as she flees before me, yet again.

**A/N:**

**Thanks for the unfailingly kind reviews and encouragement. I'm indebted to all of you, my beta and pre-readers.**

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**Scarlett**


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: Shackles and Heat**

When a bird flies away, I cannot catch it without shooting it down.

I did not mean it. I do care for her happiness.

Thus, I cannot hunt her down and shoot her out of her hiding place.

With my head hung low, I ride home without so much as an apple to comfort me.

Isabella thinks I mean to take her maidenhead by force, and revel in it regardless of how much it harms her.

I will do no such thing. It is not for me to ever physically hurt a woman.

Yes, I am foul and do not think to speak words of endearments to her to call her to me, but I am not familiar with anything outside of the pounding of hoofs, the lance slicing in the air, and the sword being thrust into a chest before me.

I have never felt so defeated in the battle or in the arena as I do in this moment.

What does this mean?

When I arrive at my castle, Mother is there, and she is in a state of terror.

"Where have you been?" she screeches.

I dismount in a slow, pained pace. This place is gray and holds no color or feeling of warmth.

"I was seeing to some tenant issues," I say.

"You must come nigh at once! Your father is so ill," she says, pulling at my now dry sleeve.

It seems years since I touched my Isabella in the water.

There is not a trace of the wrestling I shared with her for a few brief moments.

"See to it that the physician attends to him. I am weary after much travel," I say. I lead the horses to their stall, and quickly instruct my horse-hand to feed and water them plenty.

"The physician will not come," she squeaks, covers her mouth as she stifles a sob. Her eyes clenched closed and her shoulders roll forward. Her back shakes.

"What is this? This cannot be so. We pay him accordingly; he has no choice," I scoff.

"Nonetheless, the whole town is in a fury. People are falling prey . . ." she waves her head in anguish ". . . to the sweating sickness!"

"That disease has not been prevalent in over a decade," I say, waving my hand in the air to dismiss this foolishness.

She lands in my arms abruptly, and weeps into my vest.

"Nothing is going to happen," I say, patting her back.

"It is bad. It's already taken two nobles." She sniffs and holds me tight.

"Two, you say? Are you certain of this, or are you listening to gossip again?" I smile.

Mother gets pulled in by the trappings of lady's chatter so easily.

So gullible, but I love that about her, even when moments like these exacerbate my lack of patience.

She trifles with things of no consequence and gets herself in a state over them.

"I am very certain. They were both there last night at your celebration, and they left in a humor of apprehension and weariness. And then they had shivers soon after. I visited them both, worried they maybe ate something at our table that did not agree with them. This morning I went to see how they coped, and they were both shed of their ghosts. They did not make it through the night!" A fresh bout of tears surface, and she shakes violently.

"What symptoms does Father have to mimic theirs?" I inquire, still skeptical that this is true. My fingers flex, ready to make fists and tear into any man that has conjured up this false image Mother has in her head.

"He started out disoriented this morning, unable to make simple decisions. I had to dress him. And then when his breakfast was brought to him, he was giddy. He complained of coldness, a stiff neck, shoulders and limbs, and he was beside himself. I knew not what to do, so I sent him to bed and stoked the fire near him, but he sweats so much . . ." Her fevered pitch cry is too much to bear.

"You stay here. See to it you eat something, drink plenty and rest. I will see how he is," I say.

She nods. I smile in return.

She gives me a tight squeeze, and treads softly up to the entrance and steps inside.

I grab her horse, knowing mine need to replenish their energy.

The moment I step up the pathway to Masen Manor, I smell flesh burning, and there is a lament heard inside.

"He's gone! The master is gone!" one of the servants weeps.

I barrel my way inside and find Father lying on the floor before the priest, whiter than a sheet, covered in sweat. He is motionless, and there is a lack of breath.

"Who is being burned?" I holler, panicked about the state of affairs here.

"The cook, sir," a timid nurse says from the edge of the hall.

"Why?" I glare at her.

"He was the first one to perish. The doctors have said to keep this disease from spreading and contaminating others, we are to burn the dead immediately. That includes him," she says, pointing to my father's corpse.

"You shall do no such thing!" I yell, my fists flying in the air as my chest puffs up.

She yelps and turns in on herself, into a standing fetal position.

"I will go to my mother, and we will bury him properly. He is gentry, and you do not burn gentry like refuse!" Spit flies out of my mouth as I shout and lean toward each of them in turn.

"Yes, sir."

"If I return, and he is not in this exact spot, it is you that will be burned regardless of your state of health." I straighten my back and shoulders.

She curtsies then cowers away.

I ride back to Mother as swiftly as I can, grinding my teeth over what I must tell my mother.

Father is gone.

I am the only Masen left in the patriarchal line.

Long live Edward Masen the II; he shall realize the dream his father did not see come to fruition!

The crown . . .

**A/N:**

**I promised two people I'd post an extra chapter over the weekend. So, here ya go…**

**Enjoy your weekend!**

**Scarlett**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: Bury the Past**

Burying Father was quick, and there was little time to ponder on the happenings of it all.

My head pounds as I drag my way back to Mothers.

She feels out of sorts physically, and that frightens her.

"Must I get it too? You will be left all alone if I fall ill and part this earth," she bemoans.

"Mother, do not go on so. It is of no benefit to your humors. This illness will pass quickly like it did last time. You stay in your home. Send away any servants at all that do not seem high in spirits and health. Lock the door, and do not come out to greet any one," I say, using a forceful, battle-field tone.

"But what of my ladies; my friends?"

"Especially not them. Do you not remember last time this happened? The nobility got the brunt of this sickness, while the poverty-stricken seemed almost immune," I remind her.

"I do not recall that," she says, and her eyes look glassy.

She is beginning the fits of temper of apprehension.

Part of me screams to stay and make sure she is okay and will be well attended to, but a greater portion of me overbears and says my own personal survival outweighs hers.

She is an old woman, no longer required by society. There is not much good to be had left from her aged, worn hands.

But I? I am important. I need to be here tomorrow and the next day, and someday take control of this land which was once God-fearing.

That is exactly why this plague comes again.

Maybe God means to wipe out King Henry and do the job I would with a sword on a battlefield?

If so, I must lock myself away from the disease-riddled bodies, including my own flesh and blood.

"Mother, I need to get back. I have not stepped foot inside my home and if you recall, last night I was the one not feeling well and had to leave my own festivities," I say, playing on her sympathies.

She cups my cheek, and smiles sweetly. "Yes, my fair son. You go. Do not worry about me. I have Maria to keep me in good presence of mind and vitality." Her eyes are dull, but when she smiles, it's in a reassuring way.

I smile back, and leave in haste.

"I will not succumb to this pox!" I hiss under my breath as I enter my home.

All that night I am restless.

I lock out everybody; every single soul.

No person shall touch me until this scourge has burned its way through the land.

Once I see nothing but ash, and not a flame or curl of smoke in the sky from the ill, then I will reemerge, ready to conquer.

The only tribulation is . . . I cannot think with any type of clarity or singleness of purpose.

Is there a reason . . . where did I put my mug?

Oh, yes, I did love that dog, Talsy. He was a good thoroughbred, and he fetched well.

He was an excellent bird-dog, and I loved to hunt with him.

Birds.

I like birds.

Especially brown ones.

Soooo cold.

Why are my hands shaking?

Birds are not for eating anymore, they are for swimming with.

Like a fish.

But do not hazard to touch the fish's tail, for it will morph into a most beautiful siren of a mermaid; there to capture my soul.

I am shaking.

How did I get on the ground?

Why am I wet?

I am swimming with her; the bird with the apples.

She smiles.

I like it when she does that.

When I touch her silken threads of her hair that reach down to mid-spine, I forget that I am hungry for power, and a ravenous wolf.

I forget that I hunt and hurt.

I know only brown eyes that search out my soul.

"I have a soul. Do you see it? It's small, not worth much, but you can hold it in your palm," I say, smiling.

What is burning?

Why is my shirt a rainbow of reds, yellows, and . . .

"Ahhhhhh! I'm on fire!" I scream, and run out into the cold night.

_Splaaaaash!_

"C-c-could you call my m-m-mother?" I ask the figure I cannot see well, that doused me.

"Why were you burning your shirt? Are you unwell?" my page, Eric asks.

"I d-do not kno-ow," I stammer, because my teeth chatter. "S-so cold. Please . . . I n-need Mother."

"Sir, I came here to deliver the message for you. Your mother is gone. She passed nigh but an hour ago."

And that is when I curl up in a small ball, and say the only thing I can comprehend, "I need Isabella . . ."

"Who?"

"Father Jacob has h-her. B-bring her here. Ap-ple orch-chard!" I grit through my infernally shaking teeth.

"I will, sir, right away. But don't you think first I should return you to the confines of your home?" he asks.

"No! I need h-her now!" My voice rises like plumes of a fire. "Take my h-horse, Nicklom. He kn-knows wh-where to go."

He nods, and before I can take another breath, he is racing off into the distance.

On hands and knees, I crawl my way back inside and collapse the moment I am over the threshold.

Black is good.

Black like my heart of ice and stone.

Black is a thing of beauty; a token I understand.

Black is close to the dark, lustrous color of the hair I want to touch one more time.

Maybe even smell too.

I smell hay.

**A/N:**

**I find the sweating sickness absolutely fascinating, so I was dying to write a story that included a scene with somebody experiencing this disease. Today, doctors and scientists still have no idea what that disease was, what caused it, and why it happened on a few separate occasions. It struck the nobles more than the peasants. It had a high mortality rate and killed people within hours of contracting it. Scary as hell! It put Henry VIII on the run more than once, and some believe it's what killed his older brother, Arthur, the son initially intended to take the throne. If Arthur really did have it, then Catherine of Aragon had it as well, because she was sick at the same time Arthur was during their brief 5 month marriage, but she was able to recover, unlike him. Anne Boleyn and her brother contracted it but recovered. Henry sent one of his personal physicians to attend to her, and he praised that man heavily and rewarded him monetarily, putting him on a pedestal for saving his beloved, and his good friend at that time, George Boleyn. That physician never fell out of Henry VIII's favor for what he did for the King.**

**Scarlett**


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14: Tap, Tap, Touch**

_Tap, tap, tap._

My throat burns.

_Shhhhhh . . . _

My head aches.

_Tap, tap, tap._

Each breath is like fire in my lungs.

_Tap, tap, tap._

_Stop that! My head hurts!_

"Gggguuuuuhhhhway!" I mumble.

Shaking.

Why is the ceiling spinning?

"M-muuth-ur?" I say in a wisp of air.

I close my eyes and pray I am not dead.

"Shhhh . . . I'm here. Don't move, or I shall be forced to cut your hair off with one of your dull knives," a sweet, soprano tinkles.

"Isa . . . Isa . . . _bella_?" I ask, through tight, aching jaws that do not want to part.

"Yes, I am come for you," she answers.

"My m-mother is g-gone. She's d-dead. I am a-alone." My chest is heavy, and my eyes are moist as I stammer these words.

"I know, my lord. I am truly sorrowed for your loss, but now you need to drink this," she says, tilting my head up, and placing a goblet at the tip of my lips.

I sip it cautiously.

"Ugh! Vile!" I spit, the fluid dribbling down my chin.

The smell is putrid, and the taste worse.

She chuckles. "It's not supposed to taste good. It's the spirits that have been nursing you back to health over the last few hours."

She lifts my head onto her lap.

Are we on my _bed_? Is this to be done?

_Who will be aware of it? It matters not. Besides, this is where you desired her to be before you were struck infirm._

Hmmm . . . I smell apples and hay. I like this.

"I will never understand why you furrow your brow this way," she says, her warm finger tracing across the lines I was unaware of making.

"Not your c-concern," I reply.

"It _is,_ when you summon me and need me to play nursemaid," she says, good humored.

"I'll pay you for your t-trouble," I say, hating how weak my voice is.

"Like you paid for the hay, I suppose?" She laughs softly.

Her hand slides up my brow and into my sweaty hair.

"Mmmm . . . s'more," I whimper.

"Does that feel better? Does it ease your aching head?" she inquires.

I brave a moment to look in her eyes above me, and they are so tender and soft, the coldness leaves me.

I nod my head feebly.

"If you do not fight me, I can see to it you are in comfort and well," she says.

Her cheeks are pink. Were they always this radiant color?

"H-how, Isabella? How can you care for me?" I ask.

Her hands move fluidly through my hair, and then down around my ears to my neck.

She places her hands on my chest, settles her palms there, and gooseflesh blossoms under her touch. I hum; the vibration pleasant like her touch.

I am shirtless.

That is unexpected, but not unwelcome.

"I care that you are happy, even if you do not wish the same for others around you," she says. Her fingers run across my scalp, making my toes flex and my legs strain to move.

"I was a-angered. I did not m-mean it. He m-made me enraged," I explain.

"I could see that better than I see you now. Why men need to tear each other down over scraps of meat is not something I will ever comprehend." She shakes her head with a nurturing look in her eyes.

"He means to make you his bedmate," I say.

Finally, no shaking mouth or shortness of breath.

I am strong. I want to prove it.

My elbows push to prop me up, but I fail.

Later. I will prove the strength of my constitution _later_.

"Can you be any more foolish?" She chuckles.

"C-could you be any m-more afraid of me when I try to talk to you?" I grouse.

"I'm not afraid of you."

"You are," I insist.

Her hands are gone from head and now stroke my chest; running through the masculine proof of my virility—my chest hairs.

"You do not understand what a maiden is afraid of." She shifts toward me as if to prove her great courage in regards to me.

She gazes at my chest, and I wish I could thoroughly enjoy the moment and make it something other than her pitying me.

"What _are_ you a-afraid of?" I press my lips together.

Why do I ask these inane questions?

"I have never been with a man. And all I know is the mistreatment of women of my station by knights. They talk nothing but flattery. Well, most of them do, and then they turn into incorrigible blood-sucking creatures, taking not thought of how their lady feels," she says.

The heat of her hands soothe me.

"Do you o-only converse with kn-knights? No other m-men?" My gut tightens at the thought of any man at all, gaining her favor.

"Aye. I have, but no other opportunity to talk with men, nor do I desire to know them," she says levelly. "To a nunnery I go when I am no longer of use to God at Father's side."

"He's not your father," I say.

"He _is_. He raised me when I was most confused and floundering." She smiles as her hands drift down to my navel. A flush taints her cheeks, and she bites her enticing lip.

"I wish I knew wh-what you were th-thinking sometimes when y-you look at me," I say. My hand shakes, but I will it to lift and brush against her cheek.

Her hair sweeps over her shoulder when she leans into my touch, and the silken locks are softer than I remembered.

"Wh-why did you come h-here? You might fall i-ill," I warn.

"We peon's have strong constitutions. We do not succumb to illnesses like these. We have no time to get sick," she teases.

"That's because y-you drink this muck. It k-kills everything, including a d-desire to have the touch of a s-strong, vigorous m-man." I cough when a small wheeze of a laugh comes out of me.

"You're touching me now, aren't you? I do not know about vigor in your touch, but you are managing just fine. I give credit to my potion," she says, smiling. She sighs as she gazes at my face.

She grabs my hand that has moved into her hair and kisses my palm.

"There now. More muck for you. I want to see you up and about like a common field-hand tomorrow. For if you do, I shall be able to fly away again."

"You shall go if I'm w-well?" I ask, my voice shaky and sharp in pain.

"I shall go where I am needed," she answers.

"I n-need you, Isabella. He d-does not. And if he fails to l-let you go, I shall find a w-way to evict him," I vow.

She grins with a wicked glint in her eyes. "You scheme too much, but I understand it is bred into you. Find somebody more worthy of your squabbles other than a broken down priest who does nothing but good."

Before I can balk at that, she's tipped the cup to my lips, and I'm choking down sludge, pretending to be accepting of it.

"That's a good strong knight," she lilts.

And instead of arguing and wasting my strength that way, I take her hand and push her palms onto my face.

"Time to be washed. You cannot get better if you do not rid yourself of this sweat," she says, and as my eyes go wide, she's sitting me up; pulling off my sleeping pants.

**A/N:**

**A few of you have said in reviews you like my little notes at the bottom about facts from this time period. Oh, man, should've have said that. I was worried they were tedious and boring to all of you, but I couldn't help myself, though I was holding back some. Now there may be a deluge of information you probably never wanted. Hee hee! Yay! I love spreading facts about Tudor times like a plague.**

**Scarlett**


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15: Fighting with Unfair Advantages**

"You will not wash me!" I glare at this woman.

"I shall. If you want to get well, and you do not wish me to leave, then you will be cleaned!" she insists.

"Woman, you keep your hands where they are. Peace!" I bark.

"Edward . . ."

I rack my brain to remember if she has ever addressed me by my first name before.

The way it sounds, drifting off her tongue, is better than ambrosia.

I close my eyes, and sigh in frustration. "I am not a child. I do not need or desire you to clean me." I try to take a deep breath to puff out my chest, but cough instead.

"Sir, if you wish to get better, you have to trust me. The sweat is still upon you, and I mean to wipe it away. If you do not let me, then you risk my infection," she says. Her hair flops in her eyes, so she brushes it away with the back of her forearm.

"You will not look on my . . . manhood?" I ask, my face heating.

"Why is that of concern? You think you are the first male flesh I have seen?" she asks.

"_What_?" I roar.

"Jacob cannot bathe himself; I assist him daily. And you have no more or no less manly parts than he," she says, settling her little hands on her hips.

"This is u-unthinkable. Isabella, I demand you leave that lewd man. He is sucking your s-soul down to hell," I say, encircling her wrist with my hand. It's hard to converse when wind leaves me in little wisps when I try to speak.

She stills, looking belabored with the thought she will overtax my sapped energies.

"He cannot lead me somewhere I already dwell," she says softly.

"What is your m-meaning?" I ask, my eyebrows arching. I try to push myself toward her, but fall back to resting on my hands. I growl low in my chest at my weakness.

A moment later, I lift one hand and grasp her skirt, fisting it as tightly as I can, which does not amount to much.

She sighs in annoyance. "The nuns? They told me," she says.

"Told you wh-what?"

"They said I was black of heart and dead of eye. Sister Victoria especially made her voice known on the matter." Her voice is soothing, even though her thoughts do not agree with mine.

"She lied," I argue. That woman perjured herself most foul. This is an angel in my chambers. I gaze on her soft parted mouth and her gentle eyes. If she was close enough, I would nuzzle into her lap again.

But she gets up, forcing my hand to let go of her skirt. She is pacing around the room, agitated by our topic of conversation.

I can do nothing but lie in a heap on the bed, useless.

"Yes, she did. Father Jacob made sure to right my way of thinking on myself, after I was ingrained for quite a while to think myself below the beasts of the field, and not desirable by any being at all."

"This cannot be so! You are incredibly lovely and very desirable," I say, my voice more sure. Now if my body would comply I could kiss her to give my words more meaning.

"Enough of this talk of past woes. Time for you to up and be washed," she says, approaching me.

"I do not think my legs steady enough to hold me upright. I fear I would crush you if you try to support me," I say, worried for her petite frame.

"I will massage your muscles and bring life back into them. If it is still not to your level of sturdiness, then I will seat you in a chair as I wash you. Will that be agreeable to you, sir?"

I glare at her. "Do not call me sir. Not when you are going to be . . . _touching_ me. Call me Edward, please," I say. We should attempt to play at equals during this . . . most momentous of occasions.

The chill is gone. I am warm head to toe at the very thought of her hands testing my skin and caring for me.

"I will call you nothing until you are free of this slick coating on your skin," she says, smiling with a glint in her eyes.

"What can I do to assist you in reviving my muscles?" I ask.

"You can lie still and quit bellyaching about my methods," she says.

She pads across the floor so silently I wonder if she's skimming across frozen water.

"Relax, and do not think of your troubles. The body follows what the mind does. Think of happy moments and pleasantries."

I sigh hard, unsure if I will be able to relax at all while being on display and touched freely.

"You are a very large man in very many ways, but I think my small hands can manage you. Never fear my touch," she says, and then . . . Warm flesh skims across my own.

Her hands almost feel burning, branding, as she squeezes my shoulders and kneads them relentlessly.

"The next time you are ill and you fetch for me, make sure you have water on the boil first," she says. "It will make my bathing routine for you more manageable."

I smile. "_Again_? You would go through this more than once?" I gulp. "For _me_?"

She sighs, and her hands fly to her hips once again and perch there. "If it bears repeating, I will do it—I go where I am needed. Perhaps someday you will understand this concept."

"Then I shall have need of you every moment of every hour and never let you go," I say, smiling, cheered by this brilliant plan.

"I know artifice when I hear it," she responds, smirking.

"And yet you stay with Jacob. He told me with his own voice—he has a plan for you, and it involves him helping you right into his bed," I say testily.

She grows perturbed, and then fakes a yawn. "I grow tired of this droll conversation. If you persist in this line of talk, I will shove you over onto your belly, and then you will have no foresight of what I will do with my hands."

My stomach flips like a knight over a horse. "I like this plan. It is a most welcome one indeed." My voice breaks with excitement.

She smacks my shoulder, and then goes back to rubbing my flesh. "You are most certainly on the mend if you are thinking in that fashion."

I say nothing, but I smile at her in contentment.

The warmth she creates does not stay centered under her hands. It spreads through my limbs and into my chest. A peace pervades my entire body, and I am sated.

Although I am not comfortable being exposed in this way, there is a niceness to the way she cares for me.

As she finishes at my feet, I try to engage in conversation again. "I can see why Father Jacob feigns being ill equipped to wash himself. If you wash him the way you are touching me now, then I would do the same. This is relaxing," I say, feeling almost lulled to sleep.

"I do not touch him this way, and he is not . . . nearly as big as you are, so it does not take long at all," she admits.

My insides hum with life. I am bigger than that man. And I get the feeling she is pleased with my body.

"Is he not a muscular fellow?" I prod.

"He is, but not so well endowed as you, sir . . . I mean, Edward," she says.

"And what of his arm strength? Can he not pick you up and move you if you do something he is displeased with?"

"He can, and he often does, but I can put both of my hands around one of his upper arms and yank myself free. I do not think to even try that with you, for, I do not see how my two hands could even come in contact with each other," she blurts.

I chuckle at her wide eyes as she stares at my arms.

"Does his chest match in size to mine?" I clamp my jaw closed, nervous she may choose not to respond.

"That is probably the only area on his body that is well matched to that of yours, but he does not ride horses, joust, or sword fight. He picks apples, carries his dog, cares for the horses alongside me, and works the land. It gives him enough musculature to do the things he ought; nothing more, nothing less. You are built from other things, and daily toiling is not your lot," she explains.

"I see. Do you think me incapable of handling the land on your property?"

"I think you lack the fortitude to work the land with your hands and break your back."

She leaves me momentarily, and I am at a loss. Loss of contact is disparaging, but more so her lack of faith in my abilities.

Isabella returns with a chair so she is prepared in case we need it.

I grab her arm when she's close enough. "I would try. Every day I would try . . . to help you," I say, looking deeply in her eyes.

"Trying and being made for something are two different things," she says, brushing my hand away.

She sits me up, and the room spins a little.

"How do you know I could not do it?" I challenge.

"Because you have had a devil of it enduring this illness in less than a full eve," she teases.

"This is not funny," I bark, and try to position myself to stand.

"I never said to the like. But think on this—I could masquerade around as a gentlewoman, pretend to have riches and well born blood, but no matter what I look like, sound like, or happen to do, I will never belong in that world. It is not for me; and you are not for my world either. The dirt and grime under your nails would not be fitting, and it would weary your soul to the brink of madness."

Her words sting like a bitter cold.

"Station is earned. I do not care what the social class system says. Henry the VIII is on the throne because his father cut through the mire with a sword to attain it. Down through his veins, in generations back, I can guarantee you there were commoners who did not have means." I blink hard at her, disgruntled with her belief she could never be in my world.

She _will_ belong in my world. I will see to it, now. Isabella is the sun, and she can shine in any company or location.

"I would that I was brave enough to fetch enough water for you to submerge yourself in your bathtub, but for now, I will use a wet rag to clean you," she says.

"And I will pray the water you use is warm like you," I say, smiling.

"Tis, and no complaints. I am partial to hearing, and your screams will not be welcome." She chuckles, and grips around my ribs, propping me up to stand.

My legs shake and shudder, and in the small increment of time it takes for her to return to me with the moistened rag, I am about to fall.

"I cannot. I waste with lack of energy," I say, reaching for the top of the chair.

She quickly scrambles, and sets the seat of the chair right under me.

I collapse into it, breathing hard.

"This is . . . unacceptable!" I say, out of breath.

"It is a part of being ill," she says, patting my shoulder.

"Wash me, and get this farce over with!" I bark, angered at how weak I am. I despise weakness.

And this woman is a pillar of strength.

"Yes, my Lord," she says, curtsying in a mocking way.

"I shall take you over my knee and teach you a lesson; I am not too weakened for that," I threaten.

"Aye, you may be right, but first you would have to catch me, and I know how to fly," she says, and sticks her tongue out at me.

And that is when I smack at her ass, miss and plummet to the ground for my trouble.

**A/N:**

**It's a common misconception that people in Tudor times didn't bathe very often. They were fairly clean, but heating up an entire bath was a luxury and didn't happen as often. Henry VIII and people in his court had sponge baths daily. Later in Henry's reign, he actually invented a type of water boiler or heater if you will, and was able to create a makeshift shower. He was ingenious with plumbing, and made a lot of great strides toward better hygeine at court.**

**It was also believed that when you submerged yourself in warm water, it opened the pores of the skin up to disease and infections. They dried themselves with sheets by the fire as soon as they were out of the water, rather than using towels like we have today. Spices were used when travelling by boats or barges on the river Thames, and people burned them on the boat or wore them on their coats, because most of the city's refuse was dumped in that water. So, as you can see, they were very aware of BO and noxious smells. They tried to always be presentable and smell nice, which including daily bathing.**

**Now ya know... She was seeing to it he had his daily sponge bath. She's not being mean or lewd. Well, maybe... :D**

**Scarlett**


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16: Stillness, Please!**

For one so small, Isabella is very scrappy and strong.

She heaves my sack of bones back up into the chair.

"Stay in place, please," she says, panting from exertion.

I smile. "I give the orders; I do not accept them from others," I say, chuckling until it turns into a tickling cough.

"Not when you are ill and in need of care. Your orders mean less than the dirt on the bottom of my shoes in this moment." She picks up her left foot to show me the underside. There is nothing there, but she continues, "And I am certain you will have a complaint about my state of apparel, my hideous hair, and how I smell; so share it now while I take a moment to gather my breath back."

"You are . . . breathtaking," I say as I settle back in my chair. "I spoke unwisely in the past. Please, forgive my lack of . . . I must tell you," I pause to take a breath and ponder the words I must say, "I will forever regret my rash words." My chest heats, though it's bare. "You are beautiful to me."

"You are delirious with the chill again," she says, swiping at my chest with the warm, wet rag.

"I have clarity of reason and thought, and you are wonderful," I say. "You must allow me to say it."

"Now, now, you do not wish me to think myself above a mere peon's station, do you?" She chuckles, and reaches for the water, dunks the rag and wrings it back out.

"I want you to think I care about you," I say, my eyes following her every move.

"You care about each of your tenants in a way that only a Lord can," she clarifies, nodding to herself then goes back to washing me.

"No." I still her hands on my stomach. "This is not that. It is more. And I say you shall listen to my words. I care. About. You. You are special, and you have made me see there is something better in this life than fighting."

She does not shift or show anything more than a blank stare. "Sir, this will be much less humiliating for you tomorrow if you keep still and silent."

"_What_? You think me filling the air with false words?"

My eyes go wide when she puts the rag in the place where my pants normally reside.

"I think you say what feels right in the moment, and I do not find fault with that. However, tomorrow when your chill is gone, you might wish I was not around to hear your ravings of a fevered mind," she says.

I grip her hands before she blushes while washing at the juncture of my thighs.

"Fever does not matter. You matter, and I am in earnest. Please believe me, Isabella. I mean to share a feeling I cannot contain," I say, my heart pounding.

I grab her right hand and rest it on my chest over my heart.

Her eyes go wide in astonishment.

"_That_. That is _not_ because of illness. Before you came it was slow and ragged, but now it is racing because you are near. Because I feel things in your presence I feel nowhere else," I confess, my voice adamant, my eyes pleading. I sputter out a weak cough.

The room goes deathly quiet, and I do not press the matter further.

She does her duty, washing me thoroughly, and her hands are firm and warm as they were before, but now they shake a little with each touch.

Did I scare her?

Does she think me crude and dishonest?

What would I gain in this condition to try to seduce her? It is not in my power to even hold her, let alone to take her into my bed. If she cannot believe me now, then when else could she?

Isabella helps me into fresh pants, and then places fresh linens on my bed.

When the wash water is disposed of and she's ready, she helps me back into bed.

It is crisp, clean and lonely.

"J-join me?" I ask. My skin that was fresh and warm is now chilly again; teeth chatter and my body curls in for warmth.

There is no sweat, but I shake from the inside out.

"Oh dear. I did not think it would freeze you so soon," she says, pushing me over unceremoniously, and crawls into the bed with me.

She drapes her entire body over my torso, and then covers us thoroughly with the blankets.

Her hands rub briskly over various portions of my body, and the top of her head nuzzles up under my chin.

It's nice, or would be if I could stop quaking.

"Sleep now, fair heart. You'll be woken in a while for more mucky drink. For now, peace; dream of happy times."

"Isa-bella?"

"Yes?"

"Th-thank y-y-you," I say, and I reach my arm around her.

It quivers—it aches to hold her, but I do it anyway, because I do not know how long she will allow me to do such.

"You are most welcome, Edward," she says.

My eyes slide closed, and I shake and freeze myself to sleep.

.

.

.

_Shick, shick, shick . . . _

My arm is being gripped and jostled about.

I keep my eyes closed, and continue to see mother in my mind. She is talking about the pride she has when I will someday return victorious from battle—the new king of England.

"Edward, fair heart, it's time for your tonic," Isabella whispers in the dim light of my room.

I groan and try to stretch, but everything remains stiff and hard.

Although, I am not as cold as I once was. She makes a tremendous warming coal beneath my blankets.

"Drink deeply, and then I'll let you return to slumber," she says.

The cup is at my lips, and I mentally brace myself for the gagging concoction I must ingest.

"This is truly heinous," I say between gulps.

"It is truly necessary," she says.

The next thing I know, I am vomiting it up over the side of the bed.

"S-sorry, I am ssss-sorry, Isabella," I say, tears sliding down my cheeks.

I feel hot. All of the sudden, a swell of fire hits me, and I am too blasted warm.

My head pounds, and I thirst.

Isabella moves about the room to clean up my mess, but it makes me dizzy, so I close my eyes and try to sleep.

I am twisted in blankets, and it makes me furious.

"I cannot abide this heat!" I snarl, and fling my legs and arms about to break free.

"Here, allow me," she says, and her hands unwrap me quickly.

"Now! Get it off, _now_!" I howl in agony. My skin feels as if on prickers and coals.

Her hand goes to my chest, and I whimper at the sensation of the coolness.

"Oh no! No, no, nooooo!" she screams.

My body is writhing around, convulsing wildly.

I can only hear her screeching things that do not make sense to me.

Splashes echo in the room, and I hear a male voice . . .

My page?

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," she says, and then . . .

_Spliiiiiiish!_

"Ahhhhhhh! No, no, I can't abide this!" I wail in torment. "I will kill you! Kill you all!"

Ice cold water is all around my body, and I claw at the hands that hold me down.

The Devil shall greet them soon, for they are dead!

**A/N:**

**Yep, updated a day early. No update tomorrow. Next one will be Wednesday.**

**History lesson for today—each village usually held a wise woman. She made herbal concoctions like infusions, poultices, and teas for various ailments and injuries. She dealt with the minor things until a doctor could arrive. Or in many cases, helped those too destitute to afford a doctor's help.**

**Bella is acting as a wise woman for him, giving him herbal drinks. Many wise women helped during sweating sickness outbreaks, and many times, they lost their lives, so Bella's incredibly brave to take on this role for him.**

**Who knows what next update's lesson will be on? Garderobes perhaps? We'll see… ;D**

**Scarlett**


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17: Water is the Devil**

"You have to stay in this tub, dammit!" Isabella yells in a deep voice.

It is guttural and savage, and I want to obey, but thousands of knives are poking at my skin.

My body clambers to get free of this icy grave.

But before I can extend my legs or hands, her lips are on my forehead, kissing me.

She peppers my crown, my temples, my cheeks and then my lips.

"You have to stay here. You must live," she insists. Her hands loosen on my shoulders, and then she cups my jaw gently.

"I will stay," I whimper between gentle, delicate kisses. "Just hold me."

"Of course, fair heart, I will do whatever you need," she says, her arms wrapping around me, moisture seeping into her clothes.

"Please, get in with me," I beg. Tears race down my face.

"I . . . I cannot do that, Edward," she says softly.

"Then I cannot stay in here," I say, my legs stretching out, trying to find dry land.

"No, no. I'll get in!" She scurries in behind me.

"Garrett, please leave. I can handle the rest of this on my own," Isabella tells my page.

Heavy footsteps retreat, and I hear fabric rustling behind me.

My head lags back against the tub, resting.

I do not know what she does that keeps her from me, and I growl.

"Please, Isabella, I need you. Can you quicken your pace?"

"I have to stoke the fire so when we get out, I can keep your body at the right temperament," she explains.

I open my eyes and watch a whirlwind of a crazy, stark naked woman grabbing drying sheets and placing them by the fire.

She is single minded and so beautiful as she dares to nurse me back to health.

"Now! I cannot wait another second more," I snap, reaching for her.

"Yes, yes, if you please, two more seconds," she says with a smile. It encourages me to find a thread of patience.

"Promise me you won't return to that Jacob. Stay with me; do not go back," I say, my tone biting since she still is not in my bath with me.

Before she can say anything and tell me I'm a raging lunatic, she is in the water, blanketing me with her body like she did in the bed.

Only I do not like how the water makes her almost float away from me.

"Closer. Can you not see I need you closer still?" I ask, my voice breaking.

"Lift a little, and I shall connect my feet behind your back," she suggests.

"I cannot do that. My back is stiff with the soreness," I whine.

"Then I will lift your head for a moment and wrap my arms around your neck, yes?" she asks for permission.

"Yes, anything, just closer."

She does as she says, and her grip is tenacious, and I feel . . . _safe_.

I am not sure if I'm cold, hot, or tepid to the touch, but I am placated for the moment.

"Who are you, little bird? What other creature as frail and petite as you would wrap her arms around a wolf, snapping his jaws at her?" I sigh. This arrangement is complicated in nature. She wants to leave me as soon as she can. I feel it.

"Shhhh . . . you grieve yourself into an early grave, Edward. If you do not keep your mouth silent, I shall silence it for you."

"If you mean to kiss me, then I will take that gift," I say.

Her mouth settles up against my neck, and she hums quietly.

My hands clasp behind her back, and I watch hypnotized at her hair floating around in the water like blackened seaweed.

It's most beautiful to behold.

"Isabella?"

"Yes, Edward? Am I not doing what you require?" she asks, her lips moving over my neck as she speaks.

"Not at all. You do everything right. Would you . . . after today, do you think you might regard me as a friend? Somebody you might deign to greet in passing? Can you trust me now not to harm you?" My chest clenches so I stop breathing, hoping it will pass. I also want to feel her heart beat on my chest, and I cannot do that when my breath is so raspy.

"I think you always were somebody I would consider saying good morrow to, but it was your lack of respect or notice of me that stopped me," she confesses.

"And do you think if I was blind or deaf or mute, that you might care for me the way you do for Father Jacob?" My fingers reach out for her hair floating along peacefully.

She chuckles, and I hear her teeth chatter a little. Her body trembles from the cold water. "Always you think to find an angle to capture me," she says, sounding pleased about this.

My heart clenches harder than before. She is going back to him.

He will hold her like this when he is sick. She will jump into a pond of ice water for him, the same way for me. I am not special to her like she is to me.

There is not a single breathing entity she would not do this for.

Why? Why can't I have more? Why can't I be important to her?

_Because you bark orders at her like she's nothing more than a foot soldier! You demand compliance on your schedule. She's not afraid of you, but you are nothing more than a vicious knight that would cut her down._

"If I was kinder, do you think you could like me?" My voice cracks with want.

"Edward . . . What can I say to keep you quiet? Or do you need another kiss?" she asks.

"If you kiss me, it will be all the worse for me. I will die inside when you go and even though my body might mend, I fear my heart may not. What have you done to me? How have you bewitched me thus?" I murmur, tipping my head down to kiss her crown.

"Edward?"

"Please stay," I beg.

"Edward, you need to get out of this tub now and back to bed. More tea, and we can talk tomorrow. You need rest." Her fingers run circles on my back.

A moment too soon, I am out of the tub, wrapped in deliciously warm drying sheets, and set in bed like a toddler.

She dresses and then snuggles into my side. The covers drape over us, and I hold her to me, willing her to stay with me and away from the likes of Jacob, an unholy man, ready to destroy her. He cannot have her.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18: Hold Onto Me**

I grip my hair and my voice goes hoarse.

She tries to leave, and I hold tight to her skirt.

"I am not better," I say, denying her accusation.

"You are no longer chilled, sweating, or delirious. You have a good color about you, and you have taken all of the liquids down and held them there. I am very pleased you are on the mend," she says, trying to unwind my grip.

"If you go, then you leave without this skirt, for I mean to hold onto it until my last breath leaves me," I warn.

"Then I shall take some of your breeches and ride off on your dark gray horse without any qualms whatsoever. I wear them under my skirts from time to time anyway. That is is why my skirts are oversized and why you hate them," she says, smiling at me.

"One more day," I propose, my bottom lip jutting out as my eyes implore her to stay.

"I have already stayed well past my welcome. I have been here for two nights straight," she says, trying to unlatch my fingers with more conviction.

"If you leave, I will burn down Jacob's home so you are forced to come back to me," I snap, glaring now.

"Then Jacob and I will find an orphanage to take us in where we can work for our room and board. I have always thought we should do something like that anyway so we are performing more good," she says. One of her small hands smacks the back of mine.

"Why must you hurt me so? I need you to stay. My mother and father both passed on, and you are my friend. And you would do well to remember, I am also your Lord. You stay here with me," I demand.

She leans over and kisses me chastely on the cheek, but I groan.

I grip her by the waist, and lift her back in the bed.

"See? That right there. The fact you can lift me over your body and into your bed, proves you are no longer fraught with a perilous illness." She struggles to move across me.

"Isabella, no! I am hurting. Inside I am displeased! You must stay!" My lips shake as I push her back down.

"If I walk away, what happens? Do you rampage around the villages like a ravenous wolf and consume their homes, their livelihoods because you do not get your way? Do you think those are the actions of a knight worthy to rule over people? I know you are hurting inside, and I sorrow for you, but Jacob is expecting me back." She huffs and her little fists ball up.

"Those are the cruelest words you have ever said to me." I look around for some rope or chains to keep her in my sights.

"Edward, find a wife. A pleasing lass to be at your call and worship your handsome face and well-built body. Have children, be happy. I leave so you can go down that path you must tread alone. But once you find her, you will not think twice about me, for I will be a fragment, a small moment of your life. I am happy I could know you and help in a time of need. It makes me feel worth the air I breathe." She pats my arm softly then slides across me, off the bed, and stands erect.

"I will _never_ forget you, Isabella. How many women ride off on my horses, talk back to me, and nurse me back to health when I am on the brink of death? No woman will ever do that except you. I want you, not some wealthy, boring woman that nags and worries only about expensive uncomfortable clothes and feasts with people not worth talking to." I grip her skirt again, but higher this time and yank her toward me. "I see what I need, and it most assuredly is you, fair heart. My beautiful little bird." I pucker my lips and stare at her like she must do my bidding.

Her face softens; her shoulders sag forward in defeat. "I will stay one more eve, but you must not say such things. It is madness to pretend we belong together. We belong to different worlds." She brushes my hair off my forehead, and then says she will feed me so I do not think to say anything else about her staying permanently.

.

.

.

Isabella makes delicious food. I savor each bite.

"Why could you not make me drink this, rather than that sludge of a tea? I wrinkle my nose at the memory.

She smiles. "Because this does not have medicinal properties in it."

I glance over at the window and notice a goblet with some purple wild flowers sticking out of the top of it. They remind me of her—untameable and free to put down root where it pleases.

"Those flowers . . . did you bring them to me thinking I might die and you would bury me?" I point to them.

She laughs. "Silly man, do you rich people know nothing of healing? No wonder it is the wealthy taken down by the sweating sickness. That is echinacea; I crushed it up and steeped it for your infusion. I also added chamomile to calm you, and yarrow for fever. It did not taste good to your tongue, but your insides disagreed. They embraced the herbs," she says.

I hug her to me. "You are too smart for a bird," I say. "You are more like a wily fox."

Her head tips back and she cackles like I am a court jester.

"Good sir, you are too kind to call me that. I think you like that idea because it is closer to a wolf, and a bird and wolf cannot mate."

I grin.

"I do whatever I can to make you like me," I correct her.

"You do not need to try. There is not a person I dislike other than Sister Victoria. She may never attain my forgiveness, and for that I will forever have a tainted soul." She exhales in a rough, choppy way.

My arms tighten instinctively like iron bands. "Do not say such things. That is not true! No person can love everybody, with the exception of our Savior."

She holds still and lets me stifle her with my body.

"Edward?"

"Yes, fair heart?"

"I like to breathe. Do you think you might like it if I did that too?" she asks, her voice muffled by my chest.

"Not if it means you leave," I tease and loosen my grip.

"Hhuuuuhhhh," she exhales deeply. "No matter how much I love your smell, I still think breathing might be prudent."

She loves the way I smell, and I shall never let her go! Tomorrow I shall be even stronger, more capable of keeping her here.

**A/N:**

**See ya Monday... Yep, I'll be posting!**

**Scarlett**


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19: Disparaging Words**

Isabella stays the night, and I am well pleased.

But the morning comes, and a man I have never seen before, arrives at my door, banging very loudly.

I scowl at him the moment she opens the door.

"Oh, Father James, how good to see you," she says, beaming at him.

My gut tightens and my brow winkles.

He looks at her in an unwholesome way—the way _I_ do. This "Father" is leering!

"Isabella, who is this man?" I ask, even though she's already said his name.

"He is in charge of the orphanage I was telling you about. He and Sister Victoria run it together, and we have known each other for years," she says, ushering him inside.

I stiffen when he passes over my threshold.

This man wants her. My teeth grind and my head pounds.

"I figured you forgot me; haven't you seen you in many moons," he says, hugging her.

My blood boils, watching him hold her. My jaw tenses so tight, a ripple of pain slips up to my temples.

"Enough! Why are you here, man?" I snap.

He chuckles and releases her. "Father Jacob asked me to fetch her. He is in dire need of a shave and a good washing."

I clomp my way over to her, grip her by the waist and shove her behind me.

"She is with me now. I intend to marry her and supply Jacob with servants and field-hands," I say.

Isabella sidesteps me and laughs. "Edward is quite the jester when he wants to be. Tell Jacob I shall arrive before dinner tonight, and I will help him the moment I am home."

"Do not make me wait. I am told you are to return with me," he insists.

"There's no need for that. You return now, and I willl be home shortly," she says, brushing her thick hair over her shoulders.

I grab her by those white shoulders and turn her to me. "Isabella, don't go . . ."

Her face falls. "I cannot stay any longer." She cups my face and kisses me tenderly. "Oh, how I shall miss this face and this fiery mess of hair." Her eyes roam over my entire body, and my breath is trapped inside me.

I fake a cough to keep her here under false pretenses.

"I feel unwell," I lie.

She chuckles. "Garrett is paid to help you, and he was most disgruntled when I misplaced him."

"Garrett does not smell of apples, hay, and whatever flowers your skirt brushes past. He also does not get in the bathtub with me," I say.

She gasps, and then her hand flies to her mouth. Tears fill her eyes, and she turns away from me.

"Father James, I think it best I go with you now. Edward is clearly capable of handling things himself," she says, and I watch them go straight out the door without a second glance back.

My heart plummets into the soles of my feet, and I fear I shall not walk again without treading on it and squeezing it dry of life.

"Isabella . . . please!" I scream moments later.

But it is too late.

The horse he rode in on, is gone, and so is my little bird.

I dress quickly into my riding clothes and bark at Garrett to prepare Nicklom. I will retrieve her; kicking and screaming if necessary.

"What if that man means to fight you for her?" Garrett asks.

"Then I will run him through with my sword and thrust his carcass to hell!"

"She will not stay with you if you kill a holy man," he observes.

"She thinks to be black of heart already. What will it matter if I show her how pearl white hers is in comparison to mine?"

He pats the horse, makes sure everything is secure for me, and I mount my steed, ready to take back what is mine.

**A/N:**

**Merry Christmas to those of you celebrating it!**

**Also, ****my wonderful beta for Harkham's Case, ****Sunflower Fanfiction****, is up for best beta on the fandom choice awards. It lists her as SunflowerFran3759. I voted for her. She's fabulous as a beta! If you feel so inclined, please throw a vote her way. Here's the link for it (remove spaces): **** thefandomchoiceawards . Blogspot . **

**Much love!**

**Scarlett**


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20: Trekking and Awakening**

I track their path, and of course they have sojourned back to the orchard home Isabella claims as her dwelling spot.

It's apparent the moment I arrive, I am too late. There is nobody here.

I check at the creek behind the property, and it is devoid of life.

Like a raving lunatic, I prowl around her home to ascertain where she's disappeared to.

There are tracks to the east, so I quickly feed Nicklom, water him, and think to chase them down.

But as twilight nears, I am bereft. The tracks continue, but there is no hint of them on the horizon when it is now dark.

I hunger.

I thirst.

I fatigue.

But worse . . . I hurt to see my Isabella again, my little bird who flew east, away from me.

The darkness takes over and my path leads me to a broken down abbey.

I knock on the crooked door, and am greeted by a nun with deep blue eyes, lines around the mouth, which most certainly are not from smiling.

She wears a frown like it's a permanent adornment.

"I apologize for disturbing you, but I am looking for one Father Jacob and Isabella," I say, feeling ridiculous for not even knowing my little bird's last name.

"They were here, but they left," she says, jaw tight, and then tries to slam the door on me.

I shove my foot in the door, and wedge it back open.

"It is imperative I reach them. Can you lead me in the direction they might have gone?"

"They took all of the sick children and left. I know not where they travel to, my Lord, but I can tell you this . . . she thinks herself to be a priestess; some kind of medicine-woman; shaman. She is straight from the depths of hell here to bat her lashes and lead men straight to Lucifer himself!"

I clear my throat and fight back the urge to run her through with my sword, "Forgive me, but you are . . . ?"

"Sister Victoria, and I thank you to leave me in peace now!"

I hold the door aloft. "Sister Victoria, I think you do not realize Isabella will gladly remove her halo to polish your midnight soul until it is bright as the noon-day sun, if you will only show her a little kindness!"

The witch spits in my face and slams the door shut. I hear the clank of the bar being placed to barricade her in.

I move around the perimeter of the abbey, looking for tracks once more, but the light is hence gone.

There is a temptation to burn the witch in her building, but it's an orphanage and I refuse to take the lives of innocent children.

Decidedly stuck for the night, I find a spot nearby in a peach tree orchard and create a spot to sleep.

The ground is hard, cold and unsatisfactory. Oh, what I would pay to have my darling Isabella to keep me warm on a night such as this.

"Get up. Go home. Get you nigh to bed before the sweating sickness settles in your bones again, and this time you will not have me to help you," her voice whispers.

My body twists around wildly, trying to find the source of the voice.

But I am alone.

"Fool! I cannot stop to help you. Go back. Become a king and embrace your destiny!" the voice says a little louder.

"Isabella!" I cry, "Please, come to me! I wait in the orchard for you!"

The wind is the only sound I hear.

Nicklom munches on peaches by the dozens, and I decide it is best to ride in the dark and save myself from death by being exposed to the elements.

.

.

.

For days I search for her, but she is not to be found.

There is no word of where Father James, Father Jacob or Isabella have gone.

I am sick with grief and ready to burn down the entire county of Kent to flush her out.

But then I think of how unhappy she would be.

The sweating sickness abounds, and the whole country is in a state. Henry VIII has fled, his beloved Anne is bound to her bed, battling the same illness I did, and I wait . . .

I stir.

I plot.

But not for the crown anymore.

I plot for _her_.

I scheme, to prove myself worthy of her so she might return to me of her own accord.

The only problem is the stillness of society.

There is nothing to do but sit and wait.

And the days tick by ever so slowly.

I ride my horses daily, visit her apple orchard and partake of the fruit there which ripens more each passing day.

There is not a soul on the dusty, dry and hot roads.

I am eternally in an abysmal, sour mood.

There is no answer to my plight.

I know not what to do.

So I write.

I do not know if she can read.

There is a hope in my chest that since Jacob could read before his sight failed him, he might have passed that skill on to her, but then he means to keep her down and at his heel like his dog.

_Like you, you knave! You conspired in your heart to enslave her forever!_

I cringe as my soul splinters and fractions off.

There is no question in my mind I am a dirty whoremongering dog, but I can't rest until I see her again.

At least some news must come to pass of her safety and prosperity, else I suffer for naught.

I take the parchment and quill . . .

_Dearest little bird,_

_You have flown, and your wings stretch long and far._

_Others hold fast to your tail feathers; you unwittingly carry them too._

_There is no guile you can see, because you are above us all._

_But your halo is out of your sight, so you think to be marred._

_I tell you, nay, 'tis not so, my fair heart, and never was true._

_For I was held aloft by you as well, and now I fall . . . I fall._

_Come back, little bird. Give my heart sway._

_For I wait by the orchard, and pray you will come back to stay. _

_Your friend here to serve and protect you,_

_Edward, Lord of nothing of consequence._

I set the letter down on the table, and pray she will find it soon.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21: Games in the Dirt**

_September of 1528_

It has been more than three months, the sweating sickness has passed and people are no longer too afraid to leave their homes.

Grasses are springing up green again as fall approaches.

For weeks I scoured the land for _her_, but she is gone.

There are times I think I imagined her, fabricated her in my illness, but then I see my horse, smell the bright, crisp scent of an apple, and I know she exists.

She exists without me, and that does not sit well with my humours.

I do not think to marry at all now. Mother is gone, and the games will come soon.

My mind will be otherwise engaged, and I return to my original goal of attaining the kingship.

Henry VIII is back at court, gaining enemies at his insistence to rid himself of Catherine and take Anne for a wife.

If I were not fifteen years his junior, he may have never taken the throne in the first place, but I was too young to rule when Henry the VII passed on. I was three, and Henry was eighteen. No matter. I will rectify this situation very soon.

The religious unrest is to my advantage. Where once I found myself a devout catholic, I now find the taste of cinders and ashes on my tongue when I consider stepping in to worship at mass. The priests took my bird away, and I do not think to look kindly on them because of it.

There is no religion to me anymore, except for the worship in my heart of Isabella.

"Sir, your invitation has arrived. It was just delivered," Garrett says, handing me the scroll.

I slip my finger under the seal, breaking it.

By royal decree I am to be paired against sir Laurent of Bernai. He travels all the way from France, and I care not.

He does not mean anything more than rubble to me.

"When shall we away for the games, my Lord?" Garrett inquires.

"We leave for the games tomorrow morning. I want both horses ready for the joust, for I will not choose until I am at the gates," I say, walking away from him, but not before tossing the parchment in the fire in the hearth.

I can barely think on seeing that stable without . . . without remembering her riding off and me chasing her.

Always chasing, and her forever out of reach.

_The devil to her, I say! The devil!_

Garrett comes up behind me. "Yes, sir. I agree. She's done you wrong," he agrees, and I realize I said those words out loud.

Well, good. Too right; I am justified to bray at God above for tormenting me with the memory of her.

I slam my chamber door shut, and sulk in my bed for the remainder of the night.

.

.

.

The arena is full, and it's the biggest crowd I've ever beheld.

I should be nervous about my match, but I am calmer than the tranquil blue sky above.

If I lose, will it change anything? Will it prove a point?

Will my skill win me the girl of my choosing? Will it put me on the throne sooner?

I slide my visor down, and Rosalie hands me my lance without a word.

If she was not Emmett's, I would chain her to the horse and threaten to drag her about until she tells me where Isabella hides from me.

The flag flashes, and the wind rushes through the slits in my visor as Nicklom heads toward the foe before us. Nicklom is fearless like my little bird.

Good God, I do miss her ever so.

My dreams consist only of her. Long forgotten are my parents behind my eyelids when I slumber.

Only her.

Only her.

Only her.

The pounding of the hooves embeds those thoughts over and over again.

Only her.

Only her.

And then my lance is snapped in two as I thrust it straight into the neck of my opponent, Sir Laurent.

He barely hangs on, but is not unhorsed.

We swing around, and go for another round.

This time I decide to end this quickly. If I jam it under his arm, get past the shield, he will not be able to hold a shield, lance or reins.

So that is precisely what I do.

_Clop, clop, clop, clop, clop . . . Whaaaam!_

My arms twists in an quick sideways jab, and he flies off his horse upon contact. The next moment, I slide my visor up, look down at him lying prostate on the ground and the blood gushes out of him in spurts where I hit him. He coughs blood out of his mouth as well.

I have punctured through the hole in his armor under his arm, and jammed straight into his ribs.

His lungs may decide to give out.

I toss my helmet aside, slip off my horse, and crouch down.

"I am not sorry to see you go, for I never knew you, but I do feel badly for your pains. If there was a way to spare you, I would," I say quietly.

"J-james . . . he has . . . her," he whispers.

"Who does he have?" I ask, thinking him lacking in clarity.

"Your little . . . bird," he says, and he grips my hand.

I pull him up enough so his mouth is close to my ear.

"Vic-victoria knows where they are. She knows," he says, and then his head flops back, and he's choking on blood and spit.

I ease him back to the ground, and I can barely breathe at all.

Father James has her, and Victoria knows?

What does this mean?

I already know she went with Father James, or at least I assumed that much.

But what of Jacob?

I try to jostle him back to consciousness, but it's an act in futility.

He is gone the way of the earth, and I'm declared victor.

I best knight after knight with ease, and defeat them all with sword, but I am not here.

My mind is far, far away, constructing a plan to extract the truth out of Victoria.

When the games end two days later, I leave without dismissal.

There is no telling if Laurent was wholly in his head when he said it, but I am not going to take the risk of not discovering it for myself.

**A/N:**

**This is a gift to my beta. I updated a day early because I owe her for being so fabulous. I'll post tomorrow too.**

**BTW: here's your history lesson—when the sweating sickness hit, Henry left court, fleeing, but he took Catherine of Aragon with him even though they were estranged at that point. People have been baffled for ages by him doing this with a wife he wanted to rid himself of. It doesn't confuse me at all. I think he did because even though there was no love there anymore between him and his Spanish rose, he was not a monster, no matter what history dictates. He was compassionate and cared for her as the mother of his child as one of God's children. I admire him greatly for doing this. I'm sure it was unpleasant for him to be stuck in a smaller country household with her when she was so unhappy with him, but as a Christian man, he suffered through it to protect her health.**

**He stayed away from Anne because she fell ill along with her brother George, with the dreaded sweating sickness. He told her to leave court and go back to Hever Castle; her childhood country home. He sent her one of his personal physicians that supposedly healed both Anne and her brother. Henry praised that doctor and gave him many accolades and gifts over the years.**

**So, if he loved Anne so much, why stay away? He had to. His health was of utmost importance since he had no viable heir. Of course there are many other theories out there on all this. This is mine…**

**Scarlett**


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22: Beggars at the Door**

I arrive at the abbey where Victoria thinks to be safely hidden from me.

No matter how I try, I cannot find a way inside, and she refuses to open the doors to me.

She knows I am here, ready to beat her to a mass of raw meat if need be.

For two days straight, I bang, holler and screech, but to no avail.

On day three I am ready to torch the place down, when a young shabbily dressed girl, probably no older than fifteen, comes to the door. She is a tiny slip of a thing, looks half starved but has a fierce determination in her eyes. Her golden hair is a mess; she is completely unkempt.

"I am Jane. Are you Lord Edward of Masen?" she asks, peering around the corner of the door.

"I am. What of Isabella? I seek to find her," I say, pulling her outside by the hand.

She shuffles about uncomfortable in my presence.

"If you tell me, I shall reward you," I say, pulling out my money bag.

"I do not care about money; I only want to leave this place and see Victoria put down," she says, an evil glint in her eyes.

I angle myself away a little as my gut twists. This little thing is on a quest for bloodlust.

"I intend to do exactly both those things, only tell me first where I can find Father James and Isabella," I repeat.

"I do not know where he keeps her or the other orphans, but I do know he returns here each Friday to collect more children. We are down to all but two dozen now," she says, her dirty feet digging into the earth like she wants to crawl inside and hide.

"In the morn?" I straighten my shoulders.

"Aye. Right after we break bread, he shows up and takes whatever he wants without a word. Sister Victoria pulls him aside into her chambers for a few moments to discuss matters privately, but then he leaves shortly after, and we never see those children again. I'm afraid if they take me, I will nary be seen again either," she says.

"I thought he only took the sick with him?"

"Nay, my Lord. He takes the older girls, and leaves the boys behind. It is most . . . distressing," she says, her voice quivering.

"Do not fear. I shall put a stop to this; it is happening on my lands after all," I say, giving her a bright smile.

"He comes Friday. Will you see to it he does not take me?" Her eyes soften and her shoulders slump.

"I will. You will not ride away with him, nor will any of the other girls," I vow.

.

.

.

I return home, and ponder on these events. How do I know if Jane speaks the truth? I want to believe her, but it is difficult when there is no evidence.

Friday is all I have to seek out, so Friday I shall lie in wait in the orchard nearby to see for myself.

First . . . I need help, so I set about securing a few troops to hide with me nearby.

Emmett is my first attempt.

He agrees readily, and so does Jasper, although he's taken a very strong fancy to Alice Brandon. She is above his station, but apparently she is drawn to him too, and it's been noised around court that the two hope to be matched soon.

I gather a few of my loyal soldiers, and fellow knights and set the plan in motion.

The days pass slowly during the week, and I am restless within my castle walls, waiting for Friday to come.

It is Thursday night, and I am in bed, but sleep will not come.

_Scritch, scritch, scritch . . ._

I hear a horse huff at my door, and draw my sword.

Somebody is here, and I gave strict orders for not one of my men to come here, lest we be watched by spies.

I need our plan to be held in the strictest confidences.

My clothes are at the foot of the bed, so I quickly shrug them on and creep toward the door with my sword and dagger in tow.

I fling the door open, and there lying over the top of a white mare, is Isabella, half drained of life.

Blood is covering her right leg, her dress is torn in shreds down her leg, and she is ghostly white.

"Isabella!" I shriek, and pull her down from the horse.

She barely breathes as I set her down in the same chair where she once bathed me.

Her body is lax, wilted forward like a fading flower.

My little bird is flightless.

"Tell me . . . who did this to you?" I grind my teeth after saying this.

Her eyes flutter around, her pupils dilated, but not seeing me.

I kiss her forehead, brush her hair off her face and cradle her head to my bosom.

"Please, fair heart, tell me who to punish!" I rock her.

"J-j-ja . . ."

"_Jacob_? I'll kill him!" I grit through my teeth.

"N-nooooo . . . James!" she yelps and then passes out.

He. Is. Dead! He. Is. Dust.

She is _mine_!

**A/N:**

**Back on schedule, folks. Next post will be Monday. **

**History lesson this time: There were only about 16 names used repetitively in England for woman, and not much more than that for men. Here's the list of women's names: **

**Anne**

**Jane**

**Mary**

**Margaret**

**Margery**

**Frances (but mostly used for men)**

**Cecily**

**Catherine**

**Elizabeth**

**Joan**

**Alice**

**Clemence**

**Isabel**

**Agnes**

**Blanche**

**Elinor**

**There were a few others, but these were the ones used incessantly, and most of the time, people would name their daughters after royalty, in hopes that child would some day be a social climber. So, when Catherine of Aragon was queen, it was quite normal for others to name their daughter after her. In fact, Catherine Parr, Henry's sixth and final wife, was named after his first wife, Catherine of Aragon. It's not a mistake 3 of Henry VIII's wives were named Catherine (with various spellings), 2 were named Anne, and 1 Jane. The most popular name by far during the Tudor period was Elizabeth. These ladies were sometimes called Bessie or Bess, like Henry's one admitted mistress, Bessie Blount. They could also be called Beth and there were probably other variations like Liza, Lizzy, or even Ellie. Once Elizabeth 1st, Anne Boleyn's and Henry's daughter was born, that name probably grew in even more popularity.**

**I, for one, am so pleased we have many more names to choose from nowadays. I'm sure it probably got confusing at times with everybody having the same names. Next time I may dish out the repeated men's names… I think you can guess already Henry's at the top of the list.**

**Scarlett**


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23: Left Behind**

I order Garrett to fetch my personal physician, Dr. Cullen.

He arrives and immediately sees to the very large slice on her right, inner thigh.

I cringe at the thought of how a blade was placed in such an intimate spot on her little body.

It takes everything in me to not race over to the abbey now, burn it down, and then lie in wait in the ashes for James, where I will strangle him with my own bare hands and gut his foul body.

But Isabella is incoherent, and she did not leave me when I was in this state. I shall be there for her as well. When she wakes, I want her to see me first.

The doctor mends her leg, puts a poultice on the wound, and gives me instructions of how to care for her.

I remember the disgusting drink she fed me, and realize she left those flowers behind on the window sill. They have dried; I did not have the heart to remove them. They reminded me she was real.

As I hold her in my arms on my bed, caring not at all she is bleeding on my clean linens and mattress, I decide to ensure she will not get infection and die, I must make her drink the same thing.

I settle her down on the padding, and have no idea where to start. She said she merely mashed the herbs up and steeped them, so that is what I do.

When the drink is prepared, I rouse her enough to sit her up, but she sputters and gags on the drink and tells me I'm the devil.

After dribbling bits of it in her mouth by placing some of it in my cheeks, then kissing her and letting it run into hers, I am satisfied she has at least portions of it inside of her.

She cries herself into sleep, and I remember how she tried to keep me awake the entire time I was with the sweat. Dr. Cullen said that was not a good plan when I asked him how to care for her. With a laceration like hers, she needs the rest.

I hold her to me now she has some of the concoction in her and do not close my eyes even for a moment.

She sleeps, and I long to wake her and ask her more on what happened.

I do not need to have her eyes open to find out.

Isabella talks in her sleep in this moment. I listen intently.

"No . . . don't . . . you killed them, didn't you?" she mumbles.

"Who did he kill?" I whisper in her ear.

"The ch-childrennnnn," she says.

"All of them?"

"Yesssss . . . poison . . . Jacob too . . . Dead. Allll dead," she mumbles.

Jacob is dead?

"Why did he not kill you?" I ask, flinching at the words.

"He wants me . . . because of . . . you. He needs yooooou," she says quietly.

"Me? He wants Edward?"

"Power . . . he wants Wolssssey's place," she answers.

He means to usurp Wolsey and have me on the throne?

I can barely breathe, my chest clenches so hard.

"What did he do to you, my little bird?" I ask and nuzzle into the top of her crown, inhaling her sweet smelling hair. How does she still smell of apples and hay?

"He . . . he tried to . . . touch me . . . get in my bed . . ." She gives a shuddering sob.

"Did he . . . did he violate you, Isabella?" I ask, my eyes slamming shut with the horror of these words.

"The . . . the other . . . girls . . ."

"Did. He. Rape. You?" I ask, my tone harsh while I hold her tightly to my chest so she does not think me upset with her.

Her body racks and tries desperately to attain air, so I loosen my grip.

"He c-cuuut me . . . ripped . . . my skirt . . . I kicked him . . . rannnn away . . . stole his horse . . ." she rambles in her sleep.

It sounds as if he was not successful, and I pray over and over, thanking my almighty maker, she was not a victim to his lust.

He will not only die for this, but he shall be tormented slowly until hell seems like a summer country home for him.

I talk to her, hold her and recite all of the sonnets, songs, and letters I wrote for her and left at Jacob's residence. Each day I left one, and each day the previous one was missing.

I have no doubt now James took them, and because I poured my heart out to her like a fool, he knows exactly what she means to me. He was using her to vex me greatly.

He somehow knew of my vain ambition to take the throne, and saw it as his opportunity to rise.

"He will never harm you again; I swear it. You are here with me now, and you will stay here. You will never leave; pain will not come to you again. Isabella, you are my life. You are the sun, the moon, the stars, and I bask in your goodness. I will never be worthy of you, but I will try. Each day, I will aspire to be something good enough to kneel at your feet." I kiss her hair over and over, whisper more promises of security. "I have never known such a wonderful woman as you, and I shall never let you go. _Never_! You have shown me what it means to love and care for another."

The morning comes, and already I break my promise.

I leave her behind in Garrett's care, taking James' horse for my own. The night will be darkest in my soul today, but tomorrow . . . I will seek Isabella's light. Right after I wash James and Victoria's blood off my clothes, skin and hair. For they will be nothing more than stains when I finish with them.

**A/N:**

**In order to have this story wrap up around the same time as Harkham's Case, I'm going to start posting it 5 times a week.**

**Thanks for all your kind words in regards to this story…**

**Scarlett**


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24: A Funeral Pyre**

I arrive just as planned, and hide out in the orchard. My men are scattered about, and we silently wait in the shadows.

Father James arrives, looking very disheveled with many scratches on his face. He dismounts a chestnut colored horse, and is soon revealed to have a bad limp in his left leg. I revel inside, thinking Isabella clawed his face and aimed for his manhood, thus impairing his gait.

There is nothing more I want than to rip his head off forthwith, but we must wait for him to gain access to the inside so we may also dispose of Sister Victoria.

He pounds on the door, wincing in pain as he does so, and I motion for Emmett to get into place.

The second the door swings open, Emmett's cross bow hits her square in the chest. She is flung back from the force, and James tries to flee.

I pounce on him before he can leave, and my dagger slices right through his right thigh; precisely where he harmed my little bird.

"Now you see what it means to prey on somebody," I hiss, digging the knife in deep.

He screams in rage, and my men barrel inside, stepping over Victoria's body lying prostrate on the ground.

The children are ushered out one by one, and I instruct them to be taken to Father Jacob's home. We will make a new orphanage where they will be safe and cared for.

Isabella will know what to do with them, and I will follow her instructions implicitly.

When the innocent eyes are gone, I go about dismantling this demon very slowly and vindictively.

Jasper rode off with the rest of my men and the children.

Emmett stayed behind.

"Rope!" I bark at Emmett.

He brings it without question.

"Tie his arms to the horses," I say.

"But . . . we only have one rope," he argues.

"Cut the damn thing in half, then!"

"It won't be long enough, Edward," he says.

"Cut it, or I cut you!" I holler.

He does it, and we secure the ropes to the saddles, instead of the bit as is the usual way.

It means the pressure will take longer to build; I am pleased with this idea.

"Edward, are you sure you want to do this? This is a man of God. The repercussions will be severe," Emmett says.

I glare at him for questioning me. "This man of _God,_ molested and raped innocent young girls. Orphans!" I lean toward him.

Emmett's eyes go wide and he says no more. He goes about helping and supporting me with the plan to disassemble this foul being.

James does not stop pleading for mercy, nor does he stop bleeding all over me.

I am happy about both. The stench of death is in the air.

"The left only," I instruct, and Emmett whips James' horse to fly away.

The ropes strain, and then I hear his tendons and sinews parting from his body.

Bone snaps, and his left arm is ripped free.

His piercing scream ricochets through the orchard and through the air.

"This time it's the right arm," I say.

"But there's no left arm to give counter pressure," Emmett reminds me.

"Tie the other to his left leg," I say, staring down at this vile creature.

James is crying so hard he probably can't see us.

We dismantle his right arm, and now there are only his legs to contend with.

"Left only. He keeps his right mangled-up leg so he can remember what he did to my Isabella," I say with a measured calm.

Emmett complies, but I can tell he's about to either vomit or attack me; I'm not sure which. Maybe both.

"Whhhhiiiiihhh!" the horse whinnies as Emmett sends it flying.

_Crrrrruuuuuunch!_

James' leg stretches, pulls taut then shreds apart slowly like meat, having been slow roasted and then peeled from the bone.

We dispatch what is left of James' left leg, tossing it aside. I tell Emmett to burn down the abbey, and we are to throw James inside when the fire is raging.

James is barely breathing. He's about to pass out.

"How many girls did you molest? How many, huh?" I spit in his face.

"All of them. All but Isabella. She was due," he whimpers, breath barely passing his lips.

I kick him between the legs as hard as I can, and that does it.

He loses consciousness.

And I lose my patience.

"Emmett! Fire!" I scream, pointing at the building.

Emmett goes inside for a few minutes and when he returns, he is standing at the entrance to the abbey, torch in hand, dumbfounded.

"She's gone!" he says like he's a whelp that's been kicked.

"She can't be gone; she is dead!" I say, my chest constricting, pulling my air out of me.

"Nevertheless, there is no trace. I looked inside everywhere. There is some blood where she lay, but no sign of her," he says.

"Burn this place down; I'll find her," I say.

As he sets about turning the place into an inferno, I decapitate James, throw each of his bloody limbs and his corpse into the bowels of the abbey.

Emmett has it ablaze quickly.

I suspect the _goodly_ Sister is in the orchard, hiding in the trees.

She can't have gone far with an arrow burrowed into her chest.

I will find her, and her fate will be gruesome, not unlike her partner I just rid the world of.

**A/N:**

**Come join us over on my facebook group, World of Play: Scarlett's Stories (remove spaces on all links I share): www . Facebook #!/groups/157946840950900/**

**Also, you can follow me on Twitter if you wish. I'm on there all the time CLeeAuthor. More than I should be. ;D**

**I'm getting ready to post my zombie story I'm working on (all tongue and cheek, limbs, bile, and goo) on my blog: crystalleeauthor**

**I'm also going to be reposting my old stories I took down off this account very soon, over on my other fan fic account (since that's where I post my lemon stories). The ones I post here are my limes. If you want to know about that account, tell me in your review or PM me, or you can join my facebook group. I post teasers on there for most of my stories. Also, I've started posting outtakes for Harkham's Case on my blog, if you're interested in reading them. I'll be leaving a link for that one on the next Harkham's Case update.**

**Scarlett**


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25: A Talent for Survival**

I cannot find Sister Victoria. No matter how hard I look, she is nowhere to be found.

What is with women and hiding in trees, that they are able to evade me thus?

As angry as I am, I cannot bring myself to burn the peach orchard down. It's a source of sustenance for my people; that and Isabella would kill me when she found out.

Emmett and I see to it the abbey is leveled, and then we part ways.

When I return home, Isabella is awake and coherent.

Tears cover her cheeks the moment she sees me, and I fly to her side.

She keens in the protection of my chest as I rock her to and fro like a small child.

Isabella has never been more lovely than now. Her voice is soft, her hold on me tight, and she speaks such words that go straight to my heart.

"Oh my brave, beautiful knight! You are covered with blood. Are you hurt?" she cries.

"No, fair heart. Not a scratch. James is no more, and Victoria is wounded. I will find her and finish her soon enough," I vow.

"She hates me. She hates me because James lusted after me, and she wanted to be his. I think they made some of kind of pact that after he was secured in the papal legate, he would take her as his permanent secret mistress," she whispers as if afraid other ears might hear.

"Shhhhh . . . do not chirp so of such matters. I will take care of all of this. You need not be concerned," I say, stroking her soft hair, and ignoring the way I'm smearing blood all over her.

Maybe she'll take a bath with me?

I take a deep breath to absorb the sunshine in my heart over the thought of having her naked in my arms . . .

"I did not mean to involve you in all this," she says, sniffling.

Her little hands are twisted in my blood-soaked clothing, keeping me to her, but she does not look me in the eye. Her eyes are downcast.

"Isabella . . . are you afraid of me?" I ask, ignoring her last comment.

"Why do you ask this?"

"Because you can plainly see I dismantled James and spilled his blood freely. I killed a man of God, and now I come to you in a state of filth," I say. "Surely you must be affrighted by me."

"When will you learn? I have never been afraid of you. I only feared your lust for my flesh when we were in the water. Many of those orphans were there because their mothers were forced to be the whores of a knight's lust, being slaked on a whim. I heard the stories of how these women were treated like trash; their bodies ravaged."

"I would never do that to you. I do not treat women thus. In fact . . . before you, I never had reason to even want to touch a woman. You were my first kiss," I confess.

"Truly?" Her eyes flash up to mine, and she bites her lip.

"Truly."

"But . . . you're so old!" she says, her voice high in pitch.

I chuckle and run the backs of my fingers down her cheeks. "I am but twenty-two, and I was not in the habit of caring about what women at court wanted from me. Many tried to get me to bed them, but I cared not for them. I only wanted to go to war, prove myself as a knight."

Isabella's small hands, which were always warm before, are chilled, and she intertwines her hands over mine and places them over my heart.

"You are the dearest man to me," she says, and kisses my hands in small, measured movements.

I growl, and hold back the passion building within me. If I want her to stay with me, I cannot scare her and let my body lead. Every portion of me wants to take from her flesh, and own her outright, but I stifle those urges with a deep, groaning breath.

I lie down and simply hold her to my large frame, kissing her hair lightly.

"What do we do now?" she asks, her voice far away, distant.

"We stay together. We marry. I cannot abide being away from you ever again, and I think you feel the same toward this knight."

Her head pops up off my torso. "_Marry_?"

"Aye. The sooner the better. I have to keep you safe, and I have to be with you henceforth and forevermore." I hug her tight.

"I do not wish to ever marry," she says, her voice shaky.

"Come now, Isabella. Surely you see there is no need to resign yourself to a nunnery. You saw firsthand how vile some of the nuns and priests can be," I say, stroking her hair. "You are mine. There is to be no more discussion of this foolishness about not marrying."

She extracts herself from my clutches and almost falls when she stands up.

"I do not worry about the few aberrant ghouls waiting in shadows. I know there is good to be had. Much good; and I plan to be a part of it," she insists. "I cannot do that if I am tethered down like a field animal."

"Isabella . . ." I groan, and run my encrusted, stained red hands over my face in frustration. "You are to be mine. There is no other way."

"Oh, I see . . . I am to be your minstrel, your horse-hand and you will hide me when you go to court. I am to be left behind like your excrement without a thought!" she huffs, her eyes blazing at me.

"Shush! Silence, woman! I said nothing of the sort," I snap. I take her hand and pull her back onto the bed. "You are to go wherever _this_ man goes."

"Even if I wanted to marry you, the king would not allow it," she says, her voice more subdued.

I rest her back on my chest, and do not like the hiss she procures from any slight movement of her wounded leg.

"You do not worry yourself, it is unbecoming of such a beautiful bird," I say, petting her hair.

"I do not stand by when things happen. You know I take a horse and seize the day when I need," she says.

I chuckle. "That you do. That. You. Do, my lovely Isabella. And I love you all the more for it."

She gasps and turns her gaze on my face. "You love me, then?"

"With all of my blackened heart; yes, I do. God help me, I do. So much!" I laugh hard, and the bed shakes.

"I like that sound," she says.

Our conversation is muddied and choppy; apropos for the state I am in.

"Will you stop being stubborn and consent to be my wife?" I press as I cup her jaw and land a kiss on her nose.

"Only if you give me a horse as dowry," she teases.

"Isn't this backward? You are to provide dowry, not I," I play along.

"And a man of your station does not settle for a field hand," she argues.

"True enough." I kiss her forehead lightly, and sigh. "You may have anything your heart desires, but we must marry soon. Let us consummate the union so that no man can put asunder our love and devotion to each other."

She gasps at the word consummate.

"I will not hurt you, fair heart," I reiterate.

"But you do not know that. We both are . . . inexperienced in such matters," she says, timid. Her eyes tilt downward to the bedding.

I tilt her chin up so she's gazing upon me. I could forever look in those eyes and be most content. "I know enough, and you will guide me in the art of pleasure. Your body already tells me when I please you."

She drops her head to my chest and squeezes me tight.

"I didn't ever think on marriage. I thought it not in my future," she says.

"Your future is full and bright, little bird. And I intend to be in every moment from here on out."

And with that, she pulls the covers over us and we snuggle, kiss and caress until the night takes us and we are nothing but peace and quiet breaths, heavy with sleep.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26: Blessed Bliss**

"You have seen my body bared before," I tell her, as I disrobe to bathe.

"I know, but it was under a . . . different circumstance. I should not be here, witnessing this intimate act," she says, shying away.

"Isabella, I do not wish to make you uncomfortable. If you'd rather leave, then do so. I can bathe myself. I am quite capable."

"I will . . . make you something to eat," she says, and then beats a hasty retreat without looking on me.

I sigh.

Tomorrow. We will marry tomorrow, and she can look on me all she likes.

The vision of her eyes on my manhood makes it strain after her.

In fact, I think I shall demand she look on me thusly. I rather like her gaze upon my manly flesh.

Today I will secure a priest to marry us in secret.

Isabella can wash while I am away.

Then the thought occurs to me—she is wounded. How will she do this alone?

I must stay . . . and bathe _her_! Oh, God!

My heart flies faster than any birds wings and my gut feels heavy and low.

Will she allow it?

I finish my ritual of cleanliness quickly, get dressed and find her humming as she sets about preparing quite a feast.

She has eggs cooking, tea set out, fruit cut and ready.

"_Apples_? I want apples, fair heart," I tease.

"You love them?"

"I love you, and you smell of fresh apples. The best scent in the world!" I announce loud enough I hear Garrett outside shuffling away from the house.

He never was one to listen in on private conversations. It's one of the reasons he's a trusted servant, and I've kept him on so long.

She giggles then limps over to get the eggs.

The pan is heavy, so I relieve her of her burden.

I press a kiss to her temple after I rest the eggs in the spot she designates.

"You best plant an apple tree on your grounds then," she suggests.

"I think apple, peach, and maybe pear. Then you and I can harvest all sorts of tasty fruits together," I say, taking her in my arms. "The fleshy, ripe juicy fruit is the best." My hands flex into her back, begging me to move them lower . . .

She blushes. My girl knows I refer to the impending consummation, not fruit to ingest.

"Isabella, please . . . may I kiss you and touch you a little?" I ask, nuzzling into her neck.

"My Lord, you may kiss me before your meal, but you do well to keep your errant hands to yourself. I am wounded, and it may make me woozy. I care not for fainting," she says, a smile in her voice.

I trail delicate kisses up the curve of her neck, breathe in her intoxicating scent, and find myself the woozy one.

Standing is a taxing chore. We must lie down together—naked would be best. "My God in the Heavens, the way you weaken my legs," I mutter. Her hands run up the nape of my neck and then scratch at my scalp. I purr at her touch. "Mmmm . . . that is so divine. You will do that to other parts of my body tomorrow, yes?"

Her breath hitches. "Your breakfast cools," she says quietly, voice tremulous and tender.

"I will take sustenance from you, and your supple flesh, my lady," I purr into the hollow at her throat. "You are all this man shall ever need, and I need you ever so much." I tilt my hips into her and suck in a tight breath. My tongue darts out and tastes.

She is better than any wine—making my head tingle and buzz.

"That is not the plan."

"You have yet to say yes. Marry me," I insist.

"Do I have a choice in the matter?" she says, mocking indignation.

"No. But I do not hesitate to let you feel you have some say, so you will let me sample your God-like flesh." I smirk.

She kisses my nose and wriggles free of my grasp.

"My lady, when you are my wife, I hope you have more sense than to try to get away from me for I have a dire need of your love and affections. I do not mind chasing you at times, but there are moments when it exasperates me and my temper takes hold."

"I have seen your temper, sir, and it does not impress me." She flips her hair over her shoulder and goes back to the task of feeding me.

I grab her hand and stare at her in earnest. "Isabella. Truly . . . it would be my entire world if you consent to take my hand. Do not wound me thus by saying no. I hope to wed you tomorrow."

"And so you shall, for your word is law," she says, pursing her lips in a feisty way with her hands on her hips and her head cocked.

I reach out; tuck her hand in mine. "Do you have any regard or feeling for me at all?" My eyes soften. I yank her into my lap. She allows me to encircle my arms around her, still her on my thighs. "Please, do not spare me. Tell me honestly, do you . . . Can you think to love me even a little?" My stomach rolls as I wait for her impending answer.

"Edward," she says shyly, looking up at me through her long, dark lashes. "I volunteered to be in the stables to get a better view of you. I have watched you from afar as a knight in training for three season straight. I . . . my heart yearned to know you and gaze on you. You held my affection before you ever so much as glanced in my direction." She bites her lip, and I am overcome with desire for her.

"Oh, my darling girl, you mean to make my heart spring free from my chest. I love you!" I kiss her so passionately that we both all but fall off my chair.

She giggles when I allow her to breathe, and then nuzzles her sweet face into my chest. "I am sorry I was not brave enough to say these things to you sooner."

"All is well, love. Do not fret. You have said it now, and I am complete. Tomorrow you are mine, and we will make much love until we break my bed."

She chuckles, but I am in earnest. That frame will not survive us. I am sure of it.

**A/N:**

**Happy New Year. Hope your day is going well.**

**Come join us over on my facebook group, World of Play: Scarlett's Stories (remove spaces on all links I share): www . Facebook #!/groups/157946840950900/ Sometimes this link gives people trouble, so you can always friend me on facebook, and ask me in a PM to add you manually to the group. I'm listed as Crystal Lee Author. I've also put it on my profile.**

**Also, you can follow me on Twitter if you wish. I'm on there all the time CLeeAuthor. **

**I'm also going to be reposting very soon, my old stories I took down off this account, over on my other fan fic account (since that's where I post my lemon stories). The ones I post here as Scarlettplay are my limes. If you want to know about that account, tell me in your review or PM me, or you can join my facebook group (or even look at the link at the bottom for my scifi story). I post teasers on my facebook group for most of my stories.**

**I'm also over on Goodreads if you wanna see what kind of crazy stuff I read. I leave reviews on almost everything I read. **** www . Goodreads CrystalLeeAuthor. I actually pissed a bunch of people off over there yesterday, asking for feedback on whether or not an author should respond on amazon to negative reviews. Whew! I'm not about drama. Never have been, and they were responding to a blog post I wrote. I was concerned because my 1 and only review, was negative. Since then, 2 more people reviewed and they were positive, but I removed the blog post, because I wasn't trying to stir anything up. Man, I had no idea it was such a sensitive topic, so I won't be responding to the negative review on _Hart Coursing_ (this story, Knight in Training, is the one I wrote to prepare for writing that one).**

**Also, I've been considering pulling down my science fiction romance series off Amazon since I'm not really getting very many reviews or likes or anything like that, and lately, been getting negative reviews on some of my stories. And I refuse to ask people to review or "like" something they haven't read. If you want any of my stories for free, just email me, and I'll send them to you, free of charge, crystalsgarden gmail . com. You've all been so supportive, and I owe you all so much, so I'm happy to give my stuff away to you.**

**Because of these issues with my published stories, I'm going to be posting some of them I would've published, but they'll now be on my other fan fic account. Started posting what would've been book 4 and 5 from **_**Canopy**_ **(I'm meshing them together). I'm posting them there because book 4 is fairly steamy. My dad read the first chapter (now posted as first 3 chapters) and he was livid with me. Sending me all sorts of scathing emails about it for over a week, months ago. If you like romance with a scifi background and wanna see what had my dad in a tizzy, go check it out. I'll give the address here once, then I'll be deleting it so if my RL peeps come sniffing around, they don't find this link. Here ya go:**

** www . fanfiction s/8854928/3 (on my profile)**

**I'm warning you now, it's a controversial story, so if you're fairly conservative and religious, you probably won't like it since it's basically a mixed up tale of the Creation. It's like nothing you've ever read before. Like my other stories, I take the view of "What if?" What if the Creation as we know it, happened a little differently? What if we heard from the losing side? Yes, it's strictly a BxE story, and in the beginning they're with other people, so it's not exactly wuss-perv friendly at the start, but I don't show graphic lemons of either of them being with others. I do promise a very satisfying HEA for them. Here's the extended summary so you can see if you're interested in my story, DOOGS:**

**Cancer kills, but so can overwhelming desires to cure the world of it. Doctor Edward Cullen, a brilliant pulmonologist, is pulled into a conspiracy involving the possible eradication of all disease, including dreaded cancer. Ten colonists return from the planet Deluvia with physical changes, defying explanations. While these people toiled away, making the planet inhabitable for other humans, they unwittingly inhaled gnats, changing their physical makeup. This miracle cure he wants, means fighting society and assassins. It also means fighting his urges to be with the one woman that knows all the secrets of the DOOGS. What will he do to have both?**

**There you go. Might be fun to read the first 3 chapters today while you're waking up and getting oriented with the new year.**

**I'll leave all these links on my profile for the next few days as well, since fan fic likes to screw them up on updates. I keep trying to fix them to no avail.**

**Scarlett**


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27: Of Cleanliness and Troughs**

"It is your turn to be cleansed, darling," I say, picking her up after we have both eaten our fill. She is looking a little pale.

"Oh how your words do romance a lady," she teases.

I set her down on my bed and go about securing her bath.

"You do not mean to wash me?" she chokes out, eyes wide. Her small hands settle below her throat.

I nod. "I do, my lady."

"_Edward_ . . ." She rolls her eyes at me.

"As was previously pointed out, I have already seen your naked form, madame."

"In passing. It was fleeting at best, and not meant to be lewd," she justifies her statement. "You were struck with a delirious fever."

"Who says this encounter will be anything but virtuous and chaste?" I give her the flighty brows.

She tsks and then bites her bottom lip. A deep sigh emanates out of her chest, and then she chooses to press the matter further. "I . . . things are different. We have . . . exchanged passionate feelings and kisses."

"Aye, that we have. I loved every minute of it and vow to take more," I say, undressing in the process.

_Please look on me . . ._

She averts her eyes, and shields them from me with her hands.

"This is not right!" she says.

"This is right in every sense. My body shows you how I feel for you, nothing more. You are to be my wife, and I will make sure you are bathed," I say, stomping my foot and reaching my arms out to her.

"And what will you say when the priest interviews you before we are wed and asks if you have sins to confess?" she asks.

"I will tell him I desire you and none else, and that I shall continue to do so until the last breath leaves my body. We are meant for each other—you and I. There is no shame or sin in this," I say, trying to use my most convincing voice.

She refuses to look at me.

The water is close to the correct heat already.

I get dressed and leave her sitting on my bed. I go to fetch Garrett to gather more water for her bath.

When I return she is fast asleep on my bed. And she does not look well.

I knew she was taxing her frail body by making breakfast.

Garrett calls from the other room, and I let him know that the bath will wait.

She must sleep, and I am now away to fetch a priest.

.

.

.

Regardless of how much strength my muscles hold, my heart almost rips in half to leave her for even a few hours to secure a priest to bind us lawfully together.

Emmett agrees to witness for us, along with Rosalie, and I set the time for the following morn.

When I return, Isabella is still asleep, and I worry she is unwell.

I remember the tea she all but spoon fed me, and I try to give her tiny sips, but she does not wake.

"Isabella . . . please . . . fair heart, I need you rouse now," I say, gently moving her.

She takes a shuddering, deep breath, but then her air flow goes shallow, and she is almost panting like a dog.

I hike up her skirt and can see angry red streaks around her wound.

"For the love of God!" I yell.

Garrett hears me and comes running inside.

"Sir, is there a matter?" he calls.

"Yes. I need a poultice for my lady's wound. Do you know how to make such a thing?" I ask.

"I make them on a regular occurrence for the animals at home," he says proudly.

"Then go to. I need it now!" I stand back, my legs tightening in case I need to fetch something for him.

His feet shuffle around in the other room, and I hear various clattering and banging.

Before long, he is asking for permission to enter my chambers once more.

I grant it, and tell him to instruct me on what to do so I can care for her. He shares what he knows and watches me over my shoulder as I place it gingerly over the wound.

He tells me it will stay better if I tie something loosely about it.

I rip off the bottom of my shirt into three strips, and bind her leg.

His approval normally does not hold sway with me, but in this case, it is essential.

I dismiss him for the rest of the day, the boy I thought only good for cleaning troughs and filling, has become a new friend to me. He has pleased me much and this is his reward, to have peaceful rest away from his duties.

I keep Isabella tucked into my side through the night.

From time to time I dribble some tea into the corners of her mouth.

Her breathing regulates after some time but still sounds shallower than I would prefer.

By morning, her color is back, and she is mumbling in her sleep, about riding her horse in the orchard, but she says it is a hot day and she looks forward to a swim in the creek.

I smile.

The simple pleasures she finds in life are endearing.

"My Isabella. Wake now, fair heart. I want to marry you," I say, kissing the knuckles of her left hand.

I do not have a ring for her, but I will fix that soon.

Isabella's eyes flash open and she gasps, her chest rising dramatically.

"Victoria means to kill you!" she screeches then goes limp.

**A/N:**

**Yes, yes, we all know not to give fluids to an unconscious person, but this was during a time they leached people almost constantly for ailments, so what did they know about this type of thing. Plus, he's a desperate man. He'll do anything to save her, including drown her with her own herbal remedy.**

**What can I say? His rough edges are endearing to me. I'm willing to risk a splinter for this man.**

**Scarlett**


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28: Visions of Days to Come**

She sleeps a little while longer, but when she wakes, she is in hysterics.

After coaxing her into calming herself, and telling me her nightmare, I am able to help her sit up and eat something.

She is given more tea, which she declares to be raw sewage. I laugh. Making herbal tea is not something I have forayed into before now.

We decide we shall marry right here in my chambers with her sitting up in bed next to me.

It is an agreeable arrangement, and I have no qualms about it.

The priest when he arrives, however, is less than happy about it.

"This is not done!" Father Peter grouses.

"It _is_ when my woman is hurt," I say.

He clamps his jaw shut and goes mute until it is time to proceed.

He interviews us one at a time, and Isabella takes an inordinate amount time for her confession.

What could she possibly have done besides stolen my horse when I was deserving of it?

She is so unaware of how pristine and bright her spirit is.

It is all Sister Victoria's doing. She is the one who poured poison in Isabella's ear.

I will never forgive that witch for defiling Isabella's image of herself.

Emmett arrives right in time, and Rosalie right behind him.

They sneak a kiss and rub noses while smiling, before stepping inside my chambers.

The servants about the house are in a state. They do not know what is happening, and I have yet to inform any of them of the details.

Once the ceremony and consummation is performed, then they will be made aware, not before.

I do not need this reaching the ears of royalty anytime soon.

Rosalie is thoughtful and has brought Isabella a veil, a frock to go over her peasant attire, and a few flowers to hold.

Isabella blushes the moment I take her hand.

"Lovely. Sheer perfection," I whisper to her, and kiss her little hand.

Her cheeks redden further, and I place my free hand over my heart to embarrass her even more.

My heart speeds like a destrier in pursuit of a hunt.

I can't stop staring at her.

The priest goes through the motions and says the words that I do not bother to listen to.

We recite our parts and when we kiss, the entire world melts away.

It is she and I forevermore. Our hearts will never be parted from each other—this I vow.

Emmett clears his throat, and I summarily dismiss them all.

They leave, and I lock the door securely.

"Are you tired much?" I ask her as I turn to face her.

She smiles sweetly. "I am, but I do not think that can be helped. My body is healing."

"Should we wait a few more days before we . . . have intimate relations, wife?" My voice shakes terribly, belying my impatience to explore her body and know her every dip and curve.

She swallows hard, and answers, "I don't think I am fond of waiting."

"Good woman, how you do please me!" I announce loudly to myself.

"Say that to me afterward, and all will be well," she jests.

I race to her side, take her hands in mine and press my lips to them repeatedly. "I will be ever so careful with you. Your leg will not be harmed," I promise.

"It is not my leg for which I worry. I have heard the first time for a maiden is . . . unpleasant," she says, ducking her head down, her shoulders hunched.

I dip my head down so I can see into her eyes. "Then I will have to be very slow and restrained. I want nothing but your pleasure."

She closes her eyes and smiles nervously. "And I for you. I think I can . . . lie still while you perform the deed," she says, sounding resigned.

"Not _my_ wife. My wife will never let me partake like that, for if you do not touch me, I may just go mad." My fingers flex with want—want of her, her womanly parts, but I do as I say and forebear with patience.

Her shaky hand reaches out and cups my chin. I tip my head forward and kiss the edge of her hand.

"You wish me to participate?" she whispers.

"Aye. I want you to love me, Isabella. It is the most ardent desire of my heart." I plead with my eyes as my heart feels ready to burst into flames.

She leans forward and captures my mouth with hers, and I know . . . we will be better than fine.

We will love and be loved, give and get, lose ourselves in one another.

And so we do. Isabella is brave, and all night long we caress, stroke, and bring each other to a place of unimaginable ecstasy. I am now truly a man; no longer a knight to be trained.

**A/N:**

**Sexuality in Tudor times is truly fascinating. Women were expected to lay still and they were only supposed to use the missionary position. Of course, many people did not abide these laws, but it was believed a woman would not conceive unless she released her seed (meaning, orgasmed). So, a man had to know how to bring his wife pleasure, and it was the goal to do it simultaneously. Men of royalty were even given a manual on how to get a woman to release her seed, so it taught them how to pleasure a woman's body.**

**Sounds progressive in some ways, right? Wrong. It almost meant if a woman conceived from rape, she enjoyed it and released her seed. Can you see how this can be a double edged sword. A woman could be condemned very easily for getting pregnant.**

**They also believed hard pissing by the woman after sex was a means of spilling her seeds to keep from getting pregnant. It was their version of the morning-after pill, so-to-speak.**

**Also, they were not to have sex with a woman once she was pregnant until the 6th month. This is why so many nobel men had mistresses. Who can go 6 months? Especially while pregnant? That's when my libido is worse than a man's. Sheesh! Also, there was to be no sex during lent, or on 3 days of the week: Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday.**

**Talk about a headache—all those restrictions. Do you think this Edward's going to abide by them? He's already asking his wife to break them by telling her he wants her to touch him.**

**Scarlett**


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29: Day Dawn Springs Forth**

I wake with Isabella asleep in my bed, draped over my chest, and her apple scent enveloping me.

If I died now I would not complain.

This is euphoria: the way my skin tingles, the way my body is loose and light, and how I have everything I need right here.

I worried about her leg all night long, but she was so robust in her attempts to please me, that I decided her health and vigor must be better than I surmised.

"My _wife_," I whisper to myself, my eyes wide. When did _this_ happen? When did I care to take the time to fall in love?

She yawns, and shifts a bit, but otherwise remains steadfastly asleep.

"I will make you happy. I swear it," I promise, hoping in some way she can feel what I am saying, even if she is not awake.

"You already do," she whispers, and then giggles. "All night long you _do_."

I stroke her hair down her back, and feel the creaminess of the flesh on her back.

"I did not hurt you?"

"Did I cry?"

"Well, no . . . Wife, you made many other loud savage noises I enjoyed immensely, but no tears," I say.

"Then you have your answer. I experienced a twinge of pain when you first entered my vessel, but it was gone in a moment, and then I was free." She hugs me tight around the ribs.

"Truly? It was enjoyable for you as well?" I search her eyes.

"Husband," she says, annoyed with my pestering line of questioning. "I have never felt anything more sublime than your touch." She blushes momentarily as visions of the night must be flooding her memory.

"What did you like best, so I know what actions to repeat?" I smirk.

She can barely look me in the eye now.

"Wife, I shall tickle it out of you if you are not forthcoming," I tease

"I loved it all, but I think I like best when you nibble at the back of my neck, and brush my hair out of the way. It gives me delightful shivers," she says, hiding her face by tucking it down in my chest.

"Are you ashamed you felt pleasure as a woman in that way?"

"No . . . not shame. Just transcendent joy, and I feel unworthy of it." Her voice is faint.

"If you do not deserve it, woman, then the rest of us gargoyles are not fit to even steal so much as a kiss!" I say, chuckling. "You do not see yourself, wife. There is nobody purer, nobler, or more wonderful than you."

"You do not know what I confessed to Father Peter yester morn," she says.

"Do you wish to tell me now, for I think it not bad at all," I say, feathering my fingers down her back.

"No. I think maybe later. I wish to keep this feeling locked up inside me. It's warm like delicious honey on toasted bread with butter. The way it fills me up and makes me sated is beyond description," she sighs.

"I think you describe it perfectly." My loins tingle and grow tight at at her words. I am also reminded of the some of the sonnets I wrote for her that she never received, so I decide to recite one in this moment. "Will a bird hide their nest from a happy visitor? Nay, and yet thou hast done so day by day. Will a woman hide her fair beauty from one who wishes to court her? Nay, and you look away, hide your shoulders with shame.

"By the breath of the stars, and shine of the moon, I will have your fair heart, and make you mine soon.

"For, I cannot deny the charm you have over this knight. I search in vain to find peace without you. When you are with me, I do not want you to fright. Be still, gentle soul, and know I wish to woo.

"My love and life is thine to the end of time. Make of me what you will, for you are simply sublime."

"Who wrote that?" she asks, her fingers dancing on my chest lightly.

"I did. I wrote you for weeks and left poems, songs, letters of worship, at Jacob's place, hoping you were finding them and reading them," I say.

She is stirring me up to passion with her slight, arousing touches. It is hard to constrain the beast in me, but I must wait. She certainly is sore after last night's exertions. A low rumble in chest dies off as I calm my breathing.

"You wrote _that_?"

"That I did. Is it to your liking, wife?" My insides clench in fear she will scorn my feeble attempts at love.

She sighs, "Hooohhhhh, it is . . . you have no way to know how it makes me burn for you."

"Do not jest about that, for I want nothing more than to take you again," I warn.

"Then do not stay your hand, I am at your disposal," she says, her voice cheerful.

"Are you not tender and raw from my . . . from our lovemaking?" I glance down at her and can see the profile of her smile.

"Not so very much as you might think. You were slow and gentle as you promised, and pain is nothing to me when it means I can have more of your mouth and hands. I wish to have more."

I growl and turn her onto her back.

"Can you read?" I ask.

"A little." She beams at me as I hover over her like a stalking beast.

"If I write you love letters, would that be to your liking?" I move my hips back and forth, nestling myself between her thighs as I drop my weight into her at that spot.

"Oh, Edward!" she cries and wraps her arms around me. "Yes! Oh yes, my darling!"

Her mouth is at my throat, her hands on my chest, pulling me to her, and I have found my nest of heaven right here in my chambers.


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30: Side by Side**

For two weeks I stay with my wife in bed. She lets me pamper and bathe her, and I love it.

Her wound is healing nicely, and the servants seem to dote on her worse than me.

"We need to get out of this cave today," Isabella says.

"The elements are against us. We have this warm, cozy place to huddle up together," I whine, wrapping my arms around her, spooning her from behind.

We have fallen into the habit of sleeping without garments.

It's better than anything I could have dreamed—to wake with my wife's flesh at my disposal.

My night shirts are no longer something I care to be adorned in.

"What say you to going for a ride together?" she asks.

"Is your leg well enough as all that?" I quirk a brow at her.

She tries to overdo it daily. Though she is a truly skilled cook, I do not allow her to do it. She needs rest to mend completely.

Isabella does not take well to being stationary, unless I am of course the one on top of her, pinning her down. In that instance, not a complaint is heard. Though she is still quite vocal with her passions when her seeds are released.

My heart expands, along with my groin, as I think on those cries of pleasure from her. I tuck her under me and hover above, ready to hear those noises again within the next few moments.

"Aye." She nods, and smiles radiantly at me. "I can ride." She pushes on my chest.

"How can I say no to such a beauty?" I get up and stretch, though I'd rather stay here and delve inside her womanly flesh. The thought of clothes seems almost daunting.

"Ughhhh!" she groans when she moves to stand.

"Are you sure you are ready for this?" I question.

"Just dizzy for a moment. All of that being horizontal is disagreeable to my head," she says, cupping the back of her neck.

"Not to mine," I say, wrapping my arms around her. "In fact, I think you are overexerting yourself by standing." I kiss her milk-white shoulders and run my nose up the length of her smooth neck. The scent of her holds me spellbound. "Let me lay you back down, wife, and tend to your needs. I can make your head forget about such things as leaving this room."

"I know you can, and you have done so for two weeks straight," she says, chuckling. She pushes me off her. "I say we ride and catch some fresh air."

"Good gracious, you say that like I have held you prisoner," I say, rolling my eyes.

She laughs, and tosses me my breeches I have barely seen in days. I glare at them.

.

.

.

Isabella does not flinch when I help her into the saddle, and I am watching her with rapt attention. If there is a moment of pain on her countenance, I will rip her right off Knicklom and take her straight back to bed.

"Stop hovering," she says, smiling adoringly as she pats my cheek.

"Then stop being so captivating, fair wife," I say, running my hand up her thigh. I rub my nose in that spot right after and inhale deeply. "Ahhhh, so good." Her scent does things to me.

And to make me more insane with want of her, she is wearing my shirt and it drops off her shoulder every few seconds.

My mouth waters and my loins stir.

"Edward, you are naughtier than a beggar stealing scraps of food," she says.

My hands drift up her skirt.

"Just making my sure my breeches fit you well," I say, my tone smooth and heavy with seduction.

"You have to stop touching me so we can ride," she says, shooing me away.

"This is why this is a very poor idea," I say, pouting my lip.

"Then I shall ride alone. I'm sure the view will be nice without you," she says, trotting away.

I run to Grayson, mount him precipitously and race after her.

In no time at all, she has Knicklom breathing hard, and galloping at a brisk pace.

We have no plan, no path. There is no need.

All that we have is a need to explore together.

The sun is harsh today, too warm and blazing in our eyes.

"Let us retire. The day is hot!" I shout.

"So frail, you gentry folk," she says and leans forward. The horse beneath her slender, yet powerful legs, takes off in a flurry of speed.

I push Grayson to keep up. She is whooping, and yelling in excitement. The excitement rushing through her makes her skin flush and glow. Her eyes are alight with joy, and she is a glorious creature to behold.

If she had been born male and into nobility, she'd have made an awe inspiring knight. I might have feared her—her fearless nature at least.

I marvel at her wondrous spirit.

Isabella moves us gracefully through a patch of trees and then suddenly slows to an almost stop.

"How now, wife? What troubles you?" I call out to her.

When I come upon her flanks I see why she is struck dumb.

A mythical looking meadow filled with lavender, pink, and periwinkle flowers flit in the breeze.

The air is still warm, but it moves freely here.

Isabella ghosts around the edges of the opening, and I slide off my horse. I lunge toward her, and she yelps when I scare her.

She laughs when I fall back and cushion the blow for her by keeping her to my ribs.

"This is amazing," she breathes.

"It's stunning and celestial like you," I say, turning her to me so I can kiss her properly.

Isabella does not object when I start peeling her out of her clothes and peppering her moist, warm skin with sugary, velvet kisses.

We make love under the sun, and pant each other's names as we find our ecstasy, sharing our seeds.

When our hearts begin to slow, and we are a tangle of limbs and scented with flowers, she looks me in the eye.

"This is the best birthday ever," she says.

I choke on my words. "_B-birthday_? Today is your . . . birthday?"

"Mmhm," she hums, biting her lip. "Can we stay here for a while longer? I love how peaceful it is." She entreats me without much effort to touch her again and bring her back to the brink before taking her again.

When she's ready to leave, and I am able to keep my hands off her, I take her reins so she cannot bolt again.

She beseeches me to return them to her, but I tell her I have a surprise since it is her special day and she was rude enough to not make me privy of this information days ago.

I take her to the market near court, and bedeck her with jewels, buy her two gowns she can wear on special occasions, and have her pick out a new pair of slippers.

Isabella is shy and not accustomed to buying things of luxury, so I have to persuade her with much effort each time, but it is worth it.

That night she thanks me profusely over and over in the comfort of our bed.

And I do not object.

Not at all. Not even when tears roll down my cheeks when my seed goes forth, and lands on her belly because I cannot contain it.


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31: Summons**

My wife is nineteen now. And I have made sure to physically connect with her twice that many times in the last two weeks. Being married to her for a month seems a fact I can scarcely believe.

Nothing has come between us, and I feel certain nothing ever shall.

Isabella smiles at me as she hands me breakfast biscuits.

I tear one open and eye her scandalously.

"You were very delicious last night, little bird. I enjoyed tasting you very much," I say. We break many rules of sexuality. It is not for a man to taste of a woman's flesh that way, but I care not. I cannot stop my mouth from tasting all of her. And I shall do it again tonight if she will allow it, for it makes her moan louder than I thought she could ever be.

She blushes furiously. "Shush, sir. We have servants about." She tries to quiet me by covering my mouth.

I do not tell her they probably already heard us last night. A smile breaks forth on my face.

I snatch at her, and insist she eat breakfast on my lap rather than abreast as usual. Her hand drops, and she allows me to feed her between kisses.

"You are incorrigible. Can you not look on me with fervor, rather than grab at me like I am a piece of meat?" She kisses my nose and takes a bite of the warm biscuit in my hand.

"No. That I cannot do. If I see you, I have to touch you." I bounce her once on my lap. I lean forward and whisper, "And tongue you."

"This I know to be true, all of it. But someday you might need your hands and mouth for other things besides torturing me straight to a devil's pleasure," she teases.

"Never, wench! _Never_ I say!" I bellow, laughing raucously.

The biscuit falls to the ground as I nibble at her neck and hold her tightly about her trim waist. One hand drifts down and starts to lift her skirt.

"Ahem . . ."

A throat clears, but I ignore it.

I am having my wife for breakfast. She tastes better than bread.

"Go away!" I say when the throat clears again.

"Sir . . . it's urgent," Garrett says.

"I said be gone! I am with my wife!" I bray.

"My Lord, it is a summons from the King himself, and he has a page at the door who is ordered to speak to you directly," Garrett insists.

"Uuungh! Great God! Why can't I be left to woo my wife in peace?" I drop my head.

"Go, my brave knight. I shall keep your biscuits warm," she says, her tone saucy.

"Promise?" I love it when she uses innuendos on me. It rarely happens because she's demure, but times like these makes my heart pound in my chest with flames of powerful desire.

I kiss her, and nip at her bottom lip, then bring her back to her feet. She backs away and smoothes out her skirt, then her hair.

I love the wild, _my husband laid hands on me-_look, on her. It is quite intoxicating.

I stomp my way to the door, in a fury over this intrusion.

"What?" I snap at the page at my door.

"Your Majesty sends word. You are to come to court tomorrow and explain yourself," he says levelly.

"Explain _what_?" I stare him down. "That I'm finally happy and not alone?"

"If you please, sir. I am merely told you are to explain your choice of wife and why you did not seek the King's blessing before—"

"Aaaahh!" I groan and roll my neck then snap my fingers at him. "You tell him I marry who I wish, and I explain nothing!" My eyes narrow.

A soft touch grazes my shoulder, and Isabella is at my side all of the sudden.

"We will be there, and we will be happy to discuss our nuptials," she tells him.

I slam the door and round on her.

"You think to make a mockery of me? What is the meaning of this, Isabella?" My eyes burn straight into her with anger.

"I . . . didn't think you would . . . I'm sorry, my Lord," she says, curtsying like a servant.

"Oh no . . . no, no, _no_!" I spit, my stomach falling at the thought I made her feel below my station.

She runs. She is afraid. I saw the terror in her eyes.

Does she think when others are around, I feel her inferior?

I chase after her, but she is behind our chamber door, and has it fastened securely.

_Pound, pound, pound!_

My fist batters the wood so hard, it creaks with each shaking movement.

"Let me in right this instant!" I holler.

"No! I do not have a duty to be your servant and do as you say," she wails behind the door.

Scuffling and scraping is echoing around in that room she traps herself in, and I am breaking inside.

"Isabella, _please_! I do not know what you expect of me, but I demand you open this door and listen to me!" My claws dig at the wood.

The door flies open suddenly, and she has a few articles of clothing in her possession.

She means to leave me? Before I can breathe, she . . . God no!

Isabella runs out the front door and into the daylight, fleeing from me—her husband.


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32: Name It**

I run out after her, wrestle her to the ground, and my knee accidentally scrapes along her healing wound.

She gasps in pain, and tears flood over her cheeks.

"Stop fighting me," I hiss. "I do not mean to hurt you."

I drag her back inside, take a seat and hold her in my lap, making her face me.

"I told you this wasn't right! We should not have married. You caught me in a dream and now we wake and pay for this scandalous—" She struggles free.

So, I catch her and bring her down to the floor again, pinning her with my body so she cannot break free.

She is screaming, and hurting my heart so badly, that without thinking I place my palm over her mouth, securing her lips together taut.

"Hush, wife. Listen. Do nothing but listen," I whisper, my face an inch away from her. I blow lightly across her damp cheek.

One of the servants bustles into the room and gasps in horror at the sight of me atop my wife, keeping her immobile.

"Leave!" I bark at the nosy woman.

She scampers out of the room, and before anybody else can confirm what she saw—which looks admittedly very bad—I grapple Isabella in one arm, keep her mouth covered and carry her to our chambers.

I lay her on the bed and pinion her in place with my powerful thighs.

Her eyes are squinted shut tightly, and tears keep pouring out of the corners. Her body spasms with her unvoiced sobs.

She's wagging her head side to side in anger, frustration.

"You misunderstand why I was furious. Listen for a moment, and then I will let you go. Can you do this?"

She nods, her eyes still closed, and I'm holding her so tightly to me I dare say breathing is difficult. But I cannot risk her flying away. My little bird must be caged temporarily.

"Good. Good," I say, gently kissing away her trail of tears.

"Mmmmmhhhhu," she whimpers under my palm and squirms around.

Her legs buck against me, trying to break free.

"I cannot take us to court. Do you know how many women Henry has bedded?" My voice goes up as I consider the way that man might come after her like a ravenous wolf, for she is most delectable.

Her eyes flash open and the disbelief is plain. She thinks me a liar.

"If he sees you, he will want you for himself. When the king takes a fancy to a woman, her legs are spread like the red sea parted by Moses, no questions asked. And even if you were not the gorgeous, fair maiden that you are, he would take you to spite me. He knows I am in line for the crown, and he despises me," I explain.

Her face which was contorting in pain, fear, anger—now softens considerably.

I lean forward and kiss her nose. "I cannot allow that. You are mine, and not to be shared. It would kill me if he even touched you innocently. He scatters bastards across the kingdom like it's his duty," I say, disgusted by that man.

"Aaaaannnne," she mumbles.

"Yes, he is wooing Anne, while he is married to Catherine, and he does not care it breaks his wife's heart. He may be caught in Anne's web now, but for how long? It's already spoken abroad, he may have made a bastard with Anne's very own sister, Mary. And nobody said a word. Nobody stopped him, not even Mary's husband, William. If he decides to have you, the only way I can stop him is to kill him."

She gasps. I release her mouth, and it drops open, flabbergasted by what I've shared.

"Do you want to leave me?" I ask, still smothering her with my body.

"You're not ashamed of me, and worried about what the court will think? You don't think me a peasant woman that you had a quick night of pleasure with?"

"Lady, I married you, did I not? Did I hurt you our wedding night? I treasure you, little bird. You are mine to care for. I love you."

"Do you think he will be angry that we wed?" Her eyes are bright; hopeful.

"I know not, but the stars are most likely against us."

Her brow furrows in consternation.

"He is angry much of the time because Anne will not take him between her legs, so he likes to find some reason to tirade over anyone he comes in contact with. That egotistical braggart is a bully, and I wish to teach him a lesson," I huff.

"Then let's go together. We will face him; head high and proud. And if he makes a pass at me, I will let you know immediately. We can leave, can we not?"

"I will take you and run to the ends of the earth if need be whether he dismisses or not," I say, finally letting my arms go lax.

She takes a quick uptake of air, her poor chest expanding and shuddering, out a breath.

"Sorry. You could not breathe," I admit, sheepishly and back my weight off her.

"It sounds to me you have not been able to breathe for a very long time with Henry bearing down on your back," she observes.

I chuckle. "Too true, my wife. Too true. You are an observant little thing, and I love that about you."

Isabella gropes my chest, and kisses me fiercely. "Not one person can keep me from you, if you want me."

"Hooohhhhh . . . your words are fire to my blood, and you know I want you every moment I live." My hands find their way inside her bodice and strip her of her clothes within a few heartbeats.

Let the servants hear, and know I did not harm my wife like the servant may have misconstrued, but now bring her nothing but pleasure.

Isabella is very vocal, calling out my name repeatedly as I coax the release of seed from her. I do it over and over, until she can bear to give me no more.

She is mine. My name is on her lips. No one has her but me! And those seeds she gives me, are mine alone.

**A/N:**

**When I did the research on Henry VIII's mistresses, I found only 1 could be proven true, and it was the only 1 he ever admitted to—Bessie Blount. Some of the mistresses he's been attributed to are absolutely ludicrous, and there's no way he even met or came in contact with some of them. Women of court were idle gossipers, and the best way to gain favor or secure an advantageous marriage was to vie for the King's attention. What better way to do that, than to lie and say they were the King's mistress when nobody could prove it false, except to ask the King himself. And who would risk offending and angering him that way? Not when he was called the Defender of the Faith, and was considered a very pious King, worshiping God several times a day.**

**I don't care how many people think Henry VIII had an affair with Mary Boleyn, Anne's sister, and how many novels Philippa Gregory writes about it, it's never been proven true. It makes for good drama, so I can see why The Other Boleyn Girl was so popular (I liked the book too, no matter how inaccurate most of it was). In fact, if you look at Henry VIII's track record and believe the 8 women rumored to have been Henry's mistresses, he had far less than any other kings of that time—period. ****King Francis****, had several, and it has been proven, Mary Boleyn, Anne's sister, had in fact been his "English mare," as Francis called her, because he "Rode her so often."**

**I could go on, and have written blog posts about it, but suffice to say, Henry VIII was not a man-whore like most historians would like us to believe.**

**Henry also did not die of syphilis. The research suggests he had diabetes, and never had any STD's at all, unlike Francis. Henry VIII was actually a virtuous king in many ways. He chased after Anne Boleyn for 7 years, and until right before they married, he did not take another mistress, neither did they have sexual relations. It's believed she finally gave in only a few weeks before they wed. 7 years this man was celibate. Now, that's self control! I respect him immensely, but I didn't mind making him into the stereotypical tyrant in this story so Edward had a worthy adversary to contend against.**

**Scarlett**


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33: Stone Wall**

Isabella wrings her hands until she is on her horse, and then she is as confident as can be.

I give her a reassuring smile, and she returns it with a weak, modest one.

"'Twill be alright," I say.

"It will be if we stay together," she responds.

"Lead on," I tell her, allowing her trot ahead of me.

This is unheard of.

A man always leads. I make a bold statement by letting her move on ahead.

She has my heart, so it makes sense to me she start us on our path together.

The journey is easy, and I have never seen a woman so happy to be astride a horse. Of course Isabella rides like a man, so that helps. She keeps a steady even pace the entire time, and doesn't require much rest.

Mostly we stop to let the horses recuperate, and I take those moments to caress and kiss my wife until we are both restless and barely able to refrain from performing the marriage act in the wide open.

"We should have taken the carriage," I complain, when I look down upon her slender neck. The flesh beneath it is very comely, and I miss touching it already. My manhood beckons she take me inside her.

"If we take the carriage, we look to stay for a long time," she reasons.

"True, wife. Do you ever tire of being so infallible?" I tease.

"No, because you need a lot of instruction." She bites her lip as her lips curve upward.

I growl low and deep with desire, and she rasps my name as I thrust myself at her. She cannot keep me away, so I suck and nip at her neck and jaw. "Find a place I can have you," I whisper. "Right. Now. Wife. I cannot wait."

She whimpers, "We need to ride on."

"The King can wait. I will cite bandits as our excuse for being late and lacking a carriage," I say, chuckling at my cleverness while my hands dig into her thighs, parting them.

Isabella tries to push me away, but my arms move up and encase her like steel girders.

"Please, husband, you make me look like a common whore with your hands in my hair and mussing my dress," she pleads.

I laugh harder, and keep my lips on her flesh. "You look nothing of the sort. I dare say, you look like a sweet wife who wishes to keep from tormenting her husband who has dire _needs_."

Isabella capitulates, and I have my wicked way with her in a quiet area where we cannot be discovered.

When we are done and both satisfied, we find an inn to change into our appropriate attire for court.

I long to free myself right away of my doublet and hose. They are vexing with how uncomfortable they are, but I try not to complain, since Isabella is wearing a corset and so many layers, she is barely able to mount the horse. She tugs incessantly at her stomacher and huffs.

I hate these clothes so much I risk not wearing them half the time. They do not dwell in my chambers, but in a spare chamber across the hall. The sumptuary laws do not scare me. I especially detest the codpiece.

"I think I like the way you look," Isabella says, staring at my backside as I mount my horse.

"Is that so?" My voice rises in excitement.

"Um . . . that is definitely so," she says, giggling, turning a delicious pink color with her head tilting down, but she continues to gaze up at me through her lashes. "Your powerful legs are nice to look upon."

"I will remember that when I am bare before you and you blush this way," I say, feeling completely besotted by my endearing wife.

The rest of the journey is not as pleasant. The codpiece chafes a little, making my temper sour. The shirt is scratchy and makes me sweat, and the padding in the doublet rides up, occasionally blocking my view.

Armor is almost more comfortable than these garments I am forced to gadabout in.

By the time we arrive, I am short with everybody. That is, everyone that is not my lively wife.

Isabella is radiant. Her cheeks are a vibrant pink, sun-kissed a little, and even though she is uncomfortable in her stomacher which I am aware pinches, she is silent as a mouse on the matter.

"Knicklom is the grandest charger I have ever had the pleasure of riding!" she gushes. "Thank you for allowing me the use of him."

"He agrees with you," I say, watching her like a hunter.

Servants of the King surround and greet us by the dozens.

I ignore them. "How many horses have you ridden in the way a man rides?" I ask my wife.

"Ten," she says, proud.

"Ten? That is the same as myself," I say, shocked. I dismount then help her down off her horse.

"At least we are finally equal on something," she says, relieving herself of a trapped breath.

"We are equal in all things, and especially in the privacy of our bed chamber," I growl, smirking at her. I wish into her and grab handfuls of her backside.

"If you start with that again, we will have servants trying to find our whereabouts while we hide away." She stifles a giggle.

"I care not what servants do; I only want to be with you," I say. "You make me a fire down below that can never be quenched."

She cups my cheek, and gives me a sympathetic look.

"Tonight we shall be out of these clothes and in each other's arms," she says. "And I will quench you with my special juices."

"Promise?" My mouth waters, and I can taste traces of her at the back of my throat. I swallow, and wish for more; tonight I will savor every lick I take from her flesh.

"I do," she says, nodding with a devious smile.

I kiss her swiftly, wrap her hand around my forearm and take her inside to court—where I dread she will be the topic of gossip and intrigue.

"Please, feel free to speak, but be forewarned, Henry has a temper," I whisper as we are whisked through the corridors.

"I can handle yours. I think I'll do well," she says.

"I'm sure you will, but remember he may try to mince words with you and lay out innuendos to ensnare you." I tighten my hand over hers, my chest cinching down. How will this play out? How can I keep her safe and untouched by that bastard?

"Stop trying to patronize me. I know how your kind, prances and preens at court. I have had many years to study it and observe. I know how to spot a trap and avoid it," she assures me.

"Let us hope that is true," I breathe. "And I will hope there is a tree nearby you can fly up when he comes near."

And then we are outside Henry's greeting room. I cannot breathe. My collar hinders me, and there is no air here.

We wait. And I sweat.

She holds my arm, and if she were not here to comfort me, I may burst in the door and slaughter him now.

**A/N:**

**Sumptuary laws dictated which colors and choices of fabric various people in different stations could wear. For example: purple was only for royalty.**

**The poor could only afford very neutral dyes and were only allowed the more coarse fibers. If they wore something like brocade, they could be punished by being fined and put in the stocks.**

**Now you know why peasants wore drabber colors and their attire looked scratchier and more plain.**

**So, technically, Bella, in this story, could get in big trouble for not only marrying Edward, but for also wearing apparel that was forbidden for somebody of her birth and station.**

**Scarlett**


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34: Scrutiny**

Three vassals pass by, and they curtsey then whisper about the new woman at my side.

I roll my eyes and clench my fists, ready to knock some sense into these crows, thinking to chirp gossip about my precious little bird.

Moments later, an emissary is released from the room, and we are ushered inside by a page.

Isabella eases into the room with a dignified grace that is astounding. She curtsies swiftly, and I cannot tell at all if her wound is hurting her when she bends so deeply.

I make the grand gesture that is required and am not met by Henry's blue eyes.

They are raking over my wife!

He has the starving predator look, about to approach fresh meat. My stomach lifts and tightens as I swallow down bile.

"We are sorry to be a little late in our arrival, Sire," I say, and bow once more.

"The lateness of the hour does not matter. You are here." His eyes stay trained on Isabella, who looks straight back at him, not cowering in the least.

This is bad. Very bad.

My fingers fidget at my side as I will them to keep from fisting and breaking his teeth out of his gaping head.

Henry likes a feisty woman.

_Isabella . . . look away!_

I step closer to her side.

"Majesty . . . it is good to meet you," she says, maintaining eye contact. A bold move.

_Do not talk out of turn. Wait for him to address you!_

My spine stiffens.

"Edward, who is this gem of a woman before me?" He licks his lips disgustingly.

I may vomit.

"This is my _wife_, Isabella Masen," I say coolly.

"She is most precocious. Pray, tell me, little thing, do you often talk to royalty this way?" he asks her directly, smiling like he has some plan for her.

"I treat and talk to each of God's creatures exactly the same way, every day of my life." She smiles.

Henry's eyes light up. The clear delight is frightening me. If he develops an infatuation, we will not be safe.

My hands and feet go numb and my stomach feels like it is being stabbed repeatedly. I want to double over and catch my breath, but I cannot take my eyes off this vile hunter of women.

"And how did you come to be in Edward's sights? I know I've not seen you around court. I would have remembered you," he says, his voice husky and low.

My fists tighten at my sides, cracking a little at the joints. My jaw flexes. With each breath, I fight off the urge to smash him straight through the back of his chair.

He looks over at me for a moment and smirks.

_Give me a reason to thrust my sword through you, dirty old man!_

"I wanted to get a better look at him, so I volunteered to work in the stables. He has fine horses," she says.

"Amongst other assets the women seem to enjoy," he says, trying to paint me the cad, using women.

Fortunately, Isabella knows this is false. He tries to rile us up.

"Ha! That is a great tale." His gaze shifts to me once more, and his distrusting eyes take me in. "We do not marry for love, do we, Edward? Men of our station have to do what we are told."

"Or _divorce_ for love," I challenge.

"Who divorces for love?" He quirks a brow.

"The word is, the King means to set aside his wife and marry for love. Or that is what the Boleyn's purport, Majesty," I grit through my teeth, a saucy grin in place.

He glares at me, and his jaw tightens. A red vein pops out on his left temple. "No. Divorce is not possible. I have to abide by God's laws just like everyone else."

"The great renowned Wolsey will make sure this is a God-fearing country," Isabella chimes in.

Henry's attention is focused back on her again, and the smug look he gives her is making my chest flame up and my head pound.

"I hear you are the knight to best, sir Edward." Henry folds his arms over his chest.

"Aye, that is the word," I agree.

Henry's jaw stiffens more so, and the vein in his temple pulsates angrily.

Isabella is rigid beside me, barely breathing.

I reach for her hand, and hold it tight in my own to give us both fortitude. Then I step closer to her until our sides are touching. I relax into the feel of her heat and the brush of her skirt against my leg.

He keeps his eyes on her but addresses me, "You are to renounce your wife today. This is not done. She is not yours. Never was."

"I will _not_!" I bellow. He wants her! I glare at him; my chest heaves.

"You defy your king? Treason, is it?" Henry challenges, a smug grin on his face.

"Sire, what if you were to gamble for it?" she asks.

My eyebrows pop up in alarm. "Wife, what is this?"

"You are the knight to best, and everybody knows the King is an accomplished horseman himself. Why not play for this?" Her voice is steady.

I squeeze her hand in mine.

She is risking much to throw this to chance, and I can barely breathe or move on account of it.

She wiggles her fingers, and my grip on her hand clamps down.

"Hmmm . . . you are more headstrong and fierier than a nymph," Henry says, chuckling. He is amused.

I am not. My lungs burn as I fight off howling and tearing him to shreds with my hands.

Isabella shifts a little bit, but does not blush. Thank the Lord she reserves that look for me alone.

My nerves cool slightly, but not much.

"I think we might be more evenly matched at swords," Henry offers. "I will give you a day to rest, and then you will fight me."

"I accept. And when I win, I will take my wife and leave in peace," I demand.

"I will say when you go and when we are done," Henry growls.

"Thank you, Sire, for your patience and understanding," she says, her tone soft and tinkling like a chime.

"Edward, you may go. I will speak with Isabella alone."

_I think not!_

My legs buckle in place and my jaw sets firmly.


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35: Closed Doors**

I stand rooted in place, nostrils flaring and teeth snapping as I try to find the words within me to spew at him along with venom.

"What did you say?" I snarl, leaning forward, my pulse quickened, breath pounding out of me like a stallion charging full speed ahead.

"For a man fifteen years younger than myself, you have trouble hearing," he says, his head snapping to me. "Leave . . . or I shall have you removed forcibly."

"Maybe if there are certain assurances in place?" she suggests. Her thumb caresses the top of my hand as I hold hers so tightly, her joints rub together.

"Such as?" Henry inquires.

"Such as a time frame? Maybe if the interaction is limited to five minutes, and if it goes past that mark then Edward rejoins us," she says prudently.

I nod in agreement. "Aye, that is acceptable, and I wait right outside the door. Nobody is to escort my wife past this door," I say, pointing to it.

Henry snorts. "You give orders like we are dogs."

"_Dogs_? Oh no, Sire. My trained dogs do not need to be told when it is appropriate to hunt and what to bring back. They follow my lead," I say with a mocking bow.

The merriment in his eyes is gone.

"Five minutes, starting when that door is shut behind you," he orders.

I leave with a lump in my gullet and visions of him assaulting her. It quickly morphs into Isabella moaning out in pleasure for him the way she does for me.

I hate him worse than before.

My legs move without my brain realizing I am leaving her presence; my arms move too when they shut the door. For they slap onto the wood and my forehead rests there, hoping to absorb the strength of its fibers.

The door had closed already with a thud; the sound ringing in my ears like a death toll.

My heart sinks so thoroughly I fear my lungs will seize up on me, and I will collapse to the ground.

I repress the urge to press my ear to the door so I may try to listen.

There is no need to do that.

Henry's voice carries and so does Isabella's laugh.

Each laugh she grants him is a like a dagger to my heart.

My teeth gnash together, and audibly snap each time he says her name.

"Isabella . . . tonight . . ." he says.

It's all I hear before the door is open and she is before me.

My shoulders roll back swiftly to hide the way I skulked behind this door without her near.

I reach for her immediately, and wrap my arm around her waist tightly.

She sighs at my touch, and beams at me.

"Isabella, remember what I said," he calls after her.

She curtsies humbly; does not retort.

I escort her away swiftly before he can say anything else.

When we are ushered to our quarters, I say, out of breath, "You will tell me now—did he touch you?"

"No, Edward," she says, sounding a little agitated. She pats her hair as if it is out of place.

My heart jumps, and I look her over top to bottom for some mark from him.

"You swear?" I ask.

"Yes, I swear. I would never allow him to place a finger on me," she breathes.

She tries to get relief from her stomacher, and motions for me to help her.

"With pleasure," I say, helping her to undress. "I need my fingers on you forthwith!"

"It was not important, any of it," she says. "He likes the sound of his own voice; nothing more."

"What did he say?" I struggle to undress her—damnable fabric!

"Why anger you over trivial words?" she asks, shrugging.

"Because I am your husband, and I will die if you do not share it with me!" I snap. I let go of her dress, my fingers hopeless at this job.

She sits down with her corset loosened and almost falling off her.

I breathe easier, as if I am the one loosed from a cage.

Her chest expands and she closes her eyes in gratitude over being able to inhale deeply. Her head tips back and she sighs like she's in Heaven. "Mostly he wanted to know my background."

"And what did you divulge?" I pop up an eyebrow.

"I told him I used to help at the orphanage, afterward I worked in the orchard and with the animals." She fans herself to cool off.

I step forward and grab her stomacher all the way off and use it to fan her with. The whale boning creaks a little, but I trust it not to break.

She smiles.

"I'm sure he was shocked to hear your experiences," I say.

"Aye. And then he told me I am to sit next to him at supper tonight."

"He _what_?" I roar, dropping the stomacher.

She huffs. "It seems harmless enough. You will sit on the other side of me," she says.

"Husbands rarely sit next to their wives at banquets," I say, pacing around the room—stomping really. "Henry made this popular because he tired of sitting next to his nagging wife and wanted to be able to covertly grope his mistress on the other side of him."

I am roiling inside. The filthy knave! He means to soil my wife.

"I told him you would sit next to me, and he did not say anything to the contrary," she reveals.

So I am to have a front side view of his manhandling of my wife?

This shall be grand. I toss my head back and laugh, deep in the back of my throat, where I can feel bile threatening to revisit.


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36: Dinner Companions**

The tenseness of the atmosphere is stifling. It is hard to concentrate on anything at all.

We are led to the banquet hall, and it is filled with commotion.

"Feign sickness, my love, then we return to our chambers," I beg.

She laughs. "We will not give him the satisfaction of forfeiting." She fluffs her hair behind her, then her hand tightens on my arm, and I lead on.

Each royal family is dressed in rich fabrics, decadent cloths that sparkle, and I want to vomit at all the pretension.

Every step taking us closer, is making my chest ache and my legs twitch.

We are hailed to the far end of the room, near the musicians and where the servers will be bringing out the food.

Isabella smiles pleasantly and plays the part brilliantly. Nobody would guess she was not born into this hierarchal society.

Deep down, I feel she was meant for this.

We are seated, and Henry starts in on her right away, "Was it trouble to get acquainted with your quarters?"

"No, Sire. No trouble at all. Edward knows exactly how to make the room hospitable and cozy," she says, wiggling in her seat.

My spirits lift marginally.

She grips my thigh under the table and then caresses it slowly, comforting me. Heat spreads up my thigh.

"Tell me, Isabella, do you plan to ride while you are here?" Henry asks.

"I hadn't thought on it. If Edward would like me to ride with him, then I will. I never turn him down." She smiles at me briefly, and then reaches for the wine goblet.

I love the double meaning of her words. It brings much gratification.

I smile. She is making sure our love is touted in his face but in a not so obvious manner as to risk his wrath.

"You must join us for the hunt tomorrow," the King says, gesticulating wildly. He motions for a servant to refill his wine goblet. He's already emptied it.

What is this? Why would he ask her to hunt with us? Does he think to lure her away in the woods like a villain?

"My wife needs time to recuperate from all of the travel today," I dismiss his invitation.

"I insist. We will keep it to a reasonable amount of time. Isabella says she is used to riding like a man, so she should not tire easily." He takes another healthy swig of his drink. The decanter resides close to his cup.

"How about you use one of my jennets?" Henry offers. "I have the best horses in the whole kingdom, Isabella. I think you will find the ride agreeable and very pleasant. My jennets have the smoothest ride possible, so you will never tire on one."

"I do not ride small horses most women choose," she says.

He chuckles and wipes his mouth with his hand. "How about one of my palfrey's then?"

She shakes her head and smiles.

I scowl. He means to impress her with his expensive breeds.

"Come, come," Henry starts. "You must try one of my Spanish breeds then. They're the best horses available. And since you know these beasts very well, you will know Edward will never be able to pay for such an extravagant beast."

She goes quiet; probably unsure of to respond, and remains stoic at my side.

"We will be there," I say, disheartened by already being pushed into Henry's corner.

He drones on about how the weather should be nice and the company engaging tomorrow.

Isabella chats amicably, and is entirely too approachable.

The men seem to flock to her side after dinner; she is a valuable commodity in that she can talk about sports, horses, animal husbandry, and managing an estate. Topics of conversation they would not consider sharing with another female, they have no qualms relating to her.

Isabella is more capable than most of these gentry.

I keep to her side, always touching some portion of her to give the message she is mine.

It doesn't seem to keep the other wolves at bay. They circle, unrelenting.

It is exhausting having to always be on the lookout.

The music becomes louder, and I find Henry making his way toward us.

I know what he intends. He is going to ask her to dance.

Over my carcass!

I grab Isabella without asking, and whirl her onto the dance floor.

Her eyes go wide with questions, and I whisper," Don't ask; trust me to hold you up and take care of you."

"If you will keep me on my toes, then I have no option other than trusting you," she says.

I kiss her on the apple of her cheeks, and she blushes.

I love when she does that. The pink of her skin coloring is breathtaking.

So I repeat the action, and she reliably does it again.

Henry's eyes follow her, and I do not let her go.

"Isabella, all eyes are on you. I think you enchant every man in the room," I tell her.

"They think me an oddity," she says.

"They think you a beautiful little bird they've never had the pleasure of seeing before; they want to possess you," I retort. "Stroke your colorful, exotic plumage."

She laughs it off. "Fools sometimes mistake other metals for gold. That's what I am—a trick of the eye. And they will figure it out quickly."

"Do not degrade yourself, wife. Be kind to your ego. There is nobody like you, and your beauty is unmatched." I tighten my hold on her, and covertly move her away from the area Henry is dancing in.

He has Anne Boleyn in arms, and I wish that simpering, disingenuous woman, would hold his attention more deftly.

Then he would be less apt to search my little bird out.

I spin her around, and within moments, Isabella is looking greenish in color and unwell.

"Edward . . ." she pants. "I think dancing is not for me."

I lead her off the dance floor and to a seat nearby.

Henry bounds toward us. "Isabella, are you well? You must tell me."

"She's taken care of by her husband," I snap.

"Well, if you figured out how to dance in a comely manner and not threaten your wife's meal to come back up, then she would not be in this state," he huffs.

"Edward is an expert dancer; he is not the matter. It is _I_. These are new foods I digest, and my body thinks to reject them. May I be excused back to my chambers?" Isabella asks him.

My stomach clenches over how we must bow to him.

"I will accompany you," I blurt, before he can offer.

He nods, and we depart.

Isabella vomits profusely the second we are inside the sanctity of our chambers.

This is going to be a grand stay.

I hold her hair out of the way and pat her back while helping in any manner she needs.

**A/N:**

**Anne Boleyn shocked many by riding like a man, either leg slung on both sides of a horse, rather than side saddle. That's who I based this Bella off of when she took off with Edward's Destrier at the beginning of the story.**

**A little horse info: Destriers were used for jousting (aka tilting), and chargers, or coursers, were used for hunting. Destriers were stronger and faster, but coursers could go for a longer amount of time because they were lighter. Coursers were also said to have a smoother ride, so the rider was fine doing it for extended periods. Henry VIII was well known for leaving at the crack of dawn, hunt all day long and not return well nigh into the evening. He preferred the Barb breed of horse (from Spain). He would wear out 8 of these horses out in one hunting session. He was quite the force to be reckoned with, and his large frame at 6'4" probably had something to do with what his horses could deal with as well. He was very athletic and well-built with a strong physique. Red hair and blue eyes—not unlike our Edward here, with green eyes instead. Can you see these two battling and being well matched?**

**Henry VIII had to restrict import and exports of horses for many political reasons, so he made sure that within England, they bred the largest horses possible.**

**So, this charger of his he would lend to Bella, would probably be fairly massive.**

**Scarlett**


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter 37: On the Prowl**

Isabella is cordial and cheerful all morning long as we break our fast and prepare for the hunt, but I can see a sliver of fear in her demeanor. Her answers are clipped, succinct, and she does not speak up the way she usually does.

I roll my eyes as I watch the women circling around Henry and vying for his attention.

My wife is the only one refraining from doing this, and Henry notices. All Isabella's attentions are on me and on Knicklom, my very costly destrier. Her ride may be less smooth on the hunt today, but I already know she can handle it, and she requested this horse of me. She will most likely be at the front of the pack, with a horse as fast as this, and with her light frame—I'm sure Henry will have wide eyes when he sees her fly.

That is until I bring Grayson ahead of her—my quicker of the two destriers.

The rest of the women in our company are either on jennets or palfreys. I left behind my own palfreys, because my riding horses would slow us down, and I wanted us to be able to leave as swiftly as possible once we were dismissed to leave court.

I long for home and the comfort our bed more than ever as Henry leers at my wife, and I must abide it since he may do as he pleases as our sovereign lord.

Henry has no idea I have several Spanish breeds, and several more types of horses for other uses back at my estate. He's only ever seen me on my chargers I use for tilting while at court.

The tight line of his mouth-set and the tone in his voice when he speaks while watching her, is evidence enough—he means to have her worshiping at his feet before the day is gone.

She does not bow down and grovel, hoping for scraps of him. She rarely notices him at all. Instead, she winks at me and allows me to coo in her ear about how darling she is to me.

I give sly kisses and brush up against her, all because I cannot resist her wicked charms. She smiles and blushes at me.

It gives me a thrill to have such a sought after wife, paying no heed to the noblemen around her.

"Isabella, please come and have your pick of my fine horses," Henry offers, waving her to come join him and to get her away from me and her choice of horse: mine.

"No thank you, Sire. I ride Knicklom, for he is _my_ horse, and I am accustomed to his nuances and preferences." She curtsies, and then shies away from him, almost hiding behind me.

I smirk at him.

"She knows a horse better than most knights do," I boast. "She knows a fine destrier when she sees one."

"I look forward to the view from behind," he says, and his tone is laced with lewdness.

Anne watches from a few feet away, a sour expression brandished on her face.

Henry fails to notice.

I lead Isabella to the stalls along with Knicklom so I may get my horse, and she returns to herself. Before we rejoin the group, I hold her to me, and can barely keep from ravaging her on the spot.

"You are most beautiful and irresistible this day, my delicious wife," I say, pressing her up against the wall near Knicklom.

"You are referring to yourself, sir. I have had to reign in my desire to kiss you and hold you in an inappropriate manner." Her cheeks color deeply.

Suddenly, I am a frantic husband, fighting the urges my body throws at me.

"Oh, Isabella, you make me burn. How I want you," I growl.

She tips her head back to give me better purchase for my mouth, and moans quietly as I kiss in her favorite spots that only _I_ have discovered.

After a few minutes of panting, and a few illicit touches, she presses her palms to my chest to get me to back away.

"They wait for us," she reminds me.

"Let them. I am loving my wife," I say, swiping her hands away, and pinning her more effectively up against the wall. I have her hands bound in mine, and placed above her head on the wall.

"Edward . . . you will make it hard to ride if I am . . . very _excited_ by you," she warns.

"Is that so?" I give the shameful, lusty brows. "I like the sound of this."

"You are incorrigible," she says, breaking her hands away. She swats at my shoulder.

"Always. Always, good wife," I say, sneaking in one more good kiss.

She fans herself, and then I release the rest of her.

"Ride directly beside me at all times. He might try to part us," I instruct. We step toward Knicklom to finish getting him ready to ride.

I turn to her all of the sudden. "Why did you bring Knicklom out there before we were ready to sojourn on the hunt?"

She raises an eyebrow and gives a mock innocent look. "I wanted him to see I am well taken care of, and I knew when you joined me, you would say yes to my request. I thought he should see what a real husband and wife do when they care very deeply for each other."

I chuckle. "Truly, that devious mind of yours will do great things." I pat Grayson's back and prepare him for the hunt. "Henry has no idea what a woman he trifles with in you."

"That is if he can ever gain my attention. You are wearing tights again," she observes, and then she growls as he eyes rake over my legs.

My wife. _Growls_!

Oh that is it!

I pluck her up and toss her into the fresh hay in the corner, and I have my way with her.

They wait.

And I cannot be happier.

They wait 'til I am satisfied from making her give me her seed—_loudly_.

.

.

.

Henry scowls at us when we approach from the rears. He wants her in front of him, no doubt, and he most likely can see bits of hay in her hair from our little romp. I picked out as many as I could find, but I did leave a few here and there for fun.

I smirk.

_That's right . . . I shared my manhood and mixed seed with her, and she reveled in it._

"Let us away, and keep up, women!" Henry barks, looking directly at Isabella then he leads the way.

Anne rides at his side—also riding like a man.

Only my wife and she do not ride side-saddle.

Isabella is aggressive in the group, chasing after the prey. Her instincts are impressive, and I my heart races with pride for her.

I want to kiss her silly and announce with a triumphant yell, she is my wife.

Isabella is giddy when she is the first one to spot the second fox we are in search of.

When the fox is trapped and cornered, she actually slides off her horse, joins me on mine and kisses me fiercely in celebration.

All eyes go wide and stare at her.

I chuckle at her bravery and her inability to keep her mouth and hands off me in this moment. Her hug is returned with gusto.

"I love you," she tells me, breathless.

"You know I love you more than anything," I respond, nuzzling my nose in her hair and hold her to my chest. "Such a beautiful wife, have I."

She is facing me, and is overlapping my groin with hers. Her skirts are tucked up around her legs in a very suggestive manner, though no skin is revealed.

"Stay with me. Grayson can handle us both. I like you here, only turn around, and I'll hold you to my chest," I urge her.

"I thought you'd never ask it," she says with a smile. "I missed you and did not like being away from you."

I grab hold of Knicklom's reins and loop them in a knot to my saddle so he will follow along.

Henry's face is red and his lips tight while he glares at us. He pulls up alongside us when he sees we intend to remain this way.

"Edward, if your horse she was riding is not fit for your wife, she can have mine. I have extras," he offers.

"No, that is unnecessary. She chooses to remain close to me. We do not like to be parted," I explain. "We are much more comfortable this way." I place my hands over her belly and clasp them there.

He gasps in frustration. His horse paces before us, and that throbbing vein in his temple is back.

Isabella does not turn around to face the same direction as me, but leans forward, fusing her chest to mine. Her arms are wrapped around me, and she rubs her lips across my neck, inhaling deeply and humming. She seems very cozy and content to stay here.

Chills erupt down the back of my neck and warmth spreads down my chest as her fingers slide along my jaw. Does she intend to hold me there so she can kiss me at will?

I smile at the cherished thought.

"I love the way you smell after you exert yourself; so manly," she whispers into my throat, loud enough only I can hear. "Smells a lot like our bed at home after we . . ."

"God!" I groan, melting inside at her words.

And with that, Henry is screeching, "You do not make a mockery of my party!"

Isabella's head pops off my chest, and she twists her torso to see him. "I did not realize a married couple enjoying their time together was a mockery of a court that is renowned as being a place where romance blooms," she says, sounding thoroughly mortified at our faux pas, but her words cut him to the quick.

Henry's face drops, and the red color turns white. "Because you are new to the customs at court, I will allow it, but from now on . . . forebear, lady. There are times and places where affections can be shared between a man and wife, but while hunting—absolutely not!"

Anne grimaces for a fraction of an instant, and then stares at Isabella impassively.

"Thank you, your majesty. You are most kind and lenient to your humble servants," Isabella says sweetly.

I kiss the top of her head and whisper for her to let me turn her around.

She is light in my arms, and easy to manipulate in place.

My arms are immediately around her waist and my lips in her hair as we follow at the back of the crowd. I wish I was still staring into her pretty eyes.

"You are a magnificent creature, and I do not wish to ever be on your bad side," I say, chuckling. I sneak a grope in, and she tucks her hands into the back of my hair for a moment as she moans softly.

I nip at her ear, and she exhales then shivers slightly.

She leans her back into my chest, and her hands drop from behind my head and go to stroke my thighs next to hers.

"I think we should remain in the back for the rest of the hunt, so I can touch you some without meddlers taking watch," she whispers.

Now I shiver.

"You are too good to me. Entirely too good. You please me and know what I want before I do," I say in her ear then nibble at the lobe, followed by a long lick.

Her shoulders rise up and then relax.

"It's not hard; I want the same things," she says.

Her hands grip my thighs, and then I slow down the horse's canter to an even walk so we can whisper salacious things to each other and touch in a manner we are both craving.

Isabella sets my loins on fire in the way she does not hesitate to stroke my body even with others around.

And before I know it, my hands are delving under her skirts when no one watches. My wife is braver than I knew—for she allows it and even puts her hands over mine, pushing them further inside toward her warmest spots.

God, I shall die before I ever allow Henry to touch my wife. And he never shall. Not once.


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter 38: Challenges**

"Would that the King would dismiss us and let us go home! I weary of this place already," I gripe, kicking my boot into the wall.

Isabella does not say a word—wise woman that she is.

We ghost through the corridors to the banquet hall, and I inwardly groan over having to seat my wife next to Henry yet again.

I have taken a few precautions this time that will hopefully help.

Jasper and Alice arrived in the afternoon, and I have asked them to intervene if need be.

They will be strategically placed at the table.

Isabella is wearing a royal blue velvet dress with glittering garnets all along the collar. Her hair is down in loose waves around her shoulders, her skin bright and vibrant. Her eyes are lively. She is exquisite. Hunting, riding and fresh air, along with my constant touch, agrees with her immensely.

My loins stir when I look at her, and right now they let me know their preference. The banquet hall will not be conducive to my desires.

I step close to her and hold on to her skirt, reminiscent of when she played nursemaid to me and brought me back to health. Being anchored to her clothing made me feel safe; apparently it still does.

I place Isabella at Henry's side, and smile when Jasper and Alice sit directly across from us.

I chuckle inside over the fact Queen Catherine sits next to him, on the other side. She may have mentioned that I sat next to my wife the night previous, making her displeasure known that she was not afforded the same treatment by him. Henry does not like to appear hypocritical so probably gave in to her whim.

"Isabella, allow me to introduce you to my friend, Jasper Whitlock, and his betrothed, Alice Brandon," I say. Their newly acquired betrothal is very welcome by them both and their families as well. They are well matched.

Isabella gives the proper greeting, and appears surprised to meet somebody I esteem as a comrade.

"I remember you. You're a knight," Isabella says to Jasper.

Jasper nods and smiles. He opens his mouth to speak, but His Majesty cuts him off.

"There are so many knights nowadays it is becoming commonplace," Henry says, insulting both Jasper and myself.

"In your day men did not know how to train sufficiently for battle, so knights were few and were only had amongst the extremely wealthy," I say.

Henry toasts me and chugs his sweet claret. Once more, I think he brings out his most expensive wine to tempt my wife to look in his direction and feel indebted to him, since he was unable to impress or coax her into using his fine horses for the hunt earlier today.

"Drink, my lady. The food will be here soon," Henry encourages Isabella.

"No thank you. My stomach does not sit right, and I hope to remain longer tonight than the previous. Edward likes to dance, and he is very good at it," she says. "My hope is I do not disappoint him this eve; or myself."

My heart swells as she beams at me.

I truly marvel at how free she is with her affection and love.

My hand unwittingly reaches out and caresses her wrist and inner arm. Goose flesh blossoms there along with a dusting of a rose color.

She closes her eyes and her breath stops for a moment at my touch; she leans into it and toward me. I smile and caress my fingertips in lazy circles in that same spot, absorbing the way her lips part slightly like they do when I have her in bed each night.

Henry's eyes follow my actions. He shifts next to her uncomfortably.

He watches my hands, and I watch his. If he touches her, he will become acquainted with my blade.

"Sir Edward, when do we joust again?" Jasper calls across the table.

"In a few months. I am new at marriage, and do not think my wife happy to have a husband with broken bones and bruises," I reply. I want to challenge Henry to joust with me so I have a forum where I can lay him out on his back in a brutal manner, but I know Henry will not agree to it. He knows what I did to Laurent, and he will not risk it. That is why he wanted to choose swords when we first spoke to him here at court.

Isabella smiles demurely and opens her eyes, but the lids are heavy and her pupils large.

Henry glances at Isabella's left hand that she places on the table. He gasps audibly, "My lady, you have no wedding ring!"

My jaw snaps shut, and I find myself in an instant, gripping her wrist. I am mortified with myself. I asked her on several occasions if she was ready to go find one, but she found ways to distract me with her feminine flesh and then would state it was not a pressing matter.

"We have not had time to find one fitting for her tastes," I explain. We did look once in passing at the market, but she was not impressed with the ones available.

"I have a collection of the rarest gems. Perhaps you might view them with me," henry invites her.

The Queen speaks up, "The royal jewels are very lovely to view, but do not touch them. They are most valuable." She eyes Isabella speculatively. "I am so blessed to have them in my possession."

Anne Boleyn chews her food thoughtfully from across the table, and looks calculating and cool.

Isabella ignores them all.

"I am pickier than any woman alive. Edward has a devil of a time getting me to accept any of his gifts, with few exceptions," Isabella explains, paying no heed to the Queen's words.

"That's because his money and influence cannot attain a rare gem, which is what you need," Henry pursues, trying to lay snares for my wife.

"Nay, my Lord, not so. It is not that I seek rare gems. Quite the opposite. I want something plain that will not get in the way when I am seeing to my duties, and of course taking care of my _husband_ . . . and horse." Isabella flushes then removes her attention from the conversation. She asks a servant behind her for a glass of ale, rather than the claret, and then is even brazen enough to ask them to take the wine away from her.

When the cup passes before her face, she wrinkles her nose in distaste.

I have never seen her do this before.

"We will have knight games tomorrow," Henry announces. "Sir Edward and I take to the sword." He dominates the conversation thereafter with tales of past conquests on the field with the lance and sword.

Alice engages Isabella in pleasant conversation, and I breathe easier, my shoulders dropping as I relax. It keeps Henry's attentions off my wife. And I no longer fight myself to keep from killing him and taking his throne for myself.

**A/N:**

**Claret is a spiced French wine; very sweet and more potent than English wine in terms of getting the imbiber intoxicated.**

**None of the people drank water back then. It was too polluted, so most people drank ale (fermented drink without hops). The nobles drank ale and wine. The poor drank beer, cider (made from apples), perry (fermented drink from pears), mead (mixture of honey and spices), milk (only when absolutely fresh) and ale. They could not afford imported wine, especially not claret, the most expensive of all.**

**Tea was only served as a drink for medicinal purposes at this point in time. There was no coffee either.**

**Isabella would not be accustomed to drinking something this strong, no matter how prized it would be considered. It would be like me, used to eating spaghetti for dinner, suddenly being offered caviar and thresher shark for dinner. I would wonder what the heck to do with it. Make sense?**

**Also, another little tidbit about diet back then: the rich rarely ate vegetables. They ate a lot of meat, and since hunting was considered an honorable sport, the nobles would hunt frequently and eat what they killed. Only the poor had gardens and ate their herbs and vegetables they grew. It was seen as a sign of affluence to have a variety of good meats at the banquet table. Now do we see why Henry most likely died of diabetes? He had a very unhealthy diet because their meats were spiced with lots of sugar and salt, and their fiber came from coarse meal in their breads, but they were definitely lacking in a lot of vitamin A and the B vitamins; especially folic acid (which can cause a lot of problems for pregnant women—one of the reasons I believe royalty, and Henry's wives included, had many miscarriages and stillbirths).**

**Scarlett**


	39. Chapter 39

**Chapter 39: The Green**

The jousting green looks as if it has not been used in some time when I see it from a distance. Green grass of that length has not had tread or wear in a while.

Henry is getting old, but does not admit jousting rattles his bones and causes him pain.

So much the better for me.

I hope to antagonize him today, hurting his ego so he will demand I joust with him.

There is no doubt in my mind I will best him at the sword today.

A large crowd is buzzing in the arena, and Isabella is at my side, sliding my paldrons over my shoulders, and fastening them on.

"Take care not to let him hurt you," she begs. "I want you to return to me all in one piece and without a single scratch."

"You are adorable when you worry for me, wife. If I wasn't hampered down with metal on my body, I would toss you in that hay like I did yesterday before the hunt," I say.

She blushes. My wife is very edible when like this, so I suck at her neck, and move her backward to the wall. My shirt she wears, falls off her right shoulder. I rake my eyes over her, and that creamy white shoulder, makes me want to claw my armor off so I can strip her and see more of her skin she hides under those clothes.

Isabella sighs heavy with concern. She told me last night she never watched me in the past when I was jousting or at the sword. It worried her too much, so she hid in the stables until I would come back, then she would spy me.

I kiss her lips slowly, softly to calm her nerves.

Isabella builds the kiss to an urgent level we have never experienced before. At least not from her.

Her mouth opens, and presses mine to do the same.

I have heard of this type of bawdy kissing with lips parted, but have never thought to try it on her.

Does she not think it vulgar for our tongues to explore each other's mouths?

Nay, she does not hesitate to taste mine.

The soft way her tongue caresses mine, and the way her panting breaths filter into my mouth, make me wild with desire.

Suddenly I am pulling at my armor, desperate to remove it. I _need_ her. My groin burns.

"Isabella . . . what are you doing to me?" I rasp.

She doesn't stop; doesn't answer.

All she does is quietly moan against my lips, and place her tongue further into my mouth.

I grip her to my body savagely, and grunt at how far away she feels with all of this bulky metal in the way.

"Do not get hurt, please," she whimpers, and then her mouth is gone.

"Please . . . oh do not stop, darling wife. I want more of that kind of kissing," I beg.

She chuckles.

"A king waits for you to best him, and when you are done, I will be at your disposal," she promises.

I sigh, and my shoulders sag. "Fine. I will not drag this out then. I planned to humiliate him slowly, but now I have a reason to be quick. My wife makes me mad with the racing pulse of desire," I say, throwing my hands up in the air.

She laughs.

I am handed my helmet after she helps me put my gauntlets on, and then we take Knicklom out of the stall together.

"Do not ride too long. I think thirty minutes or less might be wise," I instruct.

She nods.

Knicklom is not needed for the sword battle, but Isabella cannot watch.

It makes her sick with worry, and the only thing that will calm her is to ride. She has been vomiting most of the morning as she was in a state of ill humor over my possibly being hurt today. It was difficult to see her in such a worrisome way.

So while I am fighting, she will be exploring the grounds from Knicklom's back.

I am uneasy having her out of sight, but the court will be watching Henry's embarrassment. Nobody will bother her. And Henry will be away from her. All is well . . .

.

.

.

I saunter out to the arena, and wave to Isabella over my shoulder.

She is taking a huge risk—wearing my breeches and shirt. And of course I have a difficult time to keep from wanting to devour her when she looks so delectable.

Henry is poised, ready for the sport.

When I am in place, we both slide our visors down.

The horn blasts, and we circle each other.

Henry's silver armor, edged in black, looks intimidating. The decorative rivets are slightly distracting, but I can pay them no heed. I am in no peril.

I opted to not bring a shield, but to use my dagger and longsword. My Masen crest is emblazoned on the chest of my armor. I hope it draws his eye there. It usually does for my opponents.

My chainmail clinks under my armor a little as I move into a strategic position.

I try not to dwell on what it felt like when Isabella's lithe body was wiggling around me and her little hands were on my legs, putting my armor on. The look of lust in her eyes when she was on her knees, made my mouth water. Anytime she touches my manhood, I about come unmanned.

She has yet to taste me there, and I hope maybe someday she will venture that way with her mouth. Maybe she will enjoy tasting me as much as I do when I am savoring her feminine flavors?

And then that kissing . . . my Lord. I thank my maker above I married this woman. She is all I will ever need or want. Somehow the throne does not call to me as it once did. And being in court again and seeing how miserable Henry is, it makes me want to shun the crown if it ever is offered to me.

What has my wife done to me? How has she changed me thus?

I almost do not recognize my own voice in my head.

Henry lunges at me, and it is slow enough I have time to sidestep him easy, and avoid his blow.

I wait and observe his fighting style. It has been years since I have seen him with a sword in hand. His muscle will probably tax soon, since the longsword weighs thirty-two pounds. He is not as spry as he once was, nor does the might in his arm rival mine. Age has diminished his strength.

My elbows are bent, and close to my body; my weapon's at the ready.

Henry is off balance, and he growls at me as he lunges yet again. This time I allow him to make contact with my breastplate. The sword glances off and he stumbles forward, near to falling.

The crowd gasps, and voice jeer at me.

His flow is uncertain, so I go into taunting mode.

"I am glad both your queen and mistress could be here to see you stumble around to prove a point," I say.

"And what is that point?" he asks.

I slide my visor up, smirking. "That you are never too old to fall on your royal ass." I clang my sword on his helmet.

He roars with fury, and comes at me stronger.

I roll around him, keeping us equidistant.

It agitates him further.

"My wife pays no heed to your interest in her. You might as well let us go," I goad him.

"She will see me soon enough, and it is you who will grovel in the dirt, not I," he insists.

"If you persist, Sire, I will have to show you your true age with your own eyes." I take my sword by the blade and hammer the edge of the hilt into his side.

_Crrraaaaack!_

The crossguard pounds the armor into him, and his ribs make a splitting sound.

"Ahhhhhhh!" he screams in agony, and stumbles backward.

More loud cries from the crowd for Henry to finish me off.

"Let us go; I keep my wife, and I end this now. You keep your dignity. We all get what we desire," I hiss.

"You keep your damn wife after I've had my fill of her," he says, taking a stuttering breath.

I take my sword and do the same to the other side; damaging those ribs on the right, making it almost unbearable for him to lift his sword now.

Henry's shield shakes in his left hand too.

He tires, and I am afresh.

Just as I prepare to bring him to his knees, I hear her.

"Edwaaaard! She's here!" Isabella screams louder than I've ever heard.

She rides onto the field, and we are now compromised.

Henry now has fuel for his fire to burn us.

It is against the law for her to dress this way. No one had seen her in this state before now.

I turn to see what the danger is, and to what she refers, and Henry takes the cowardly blow from behind.

He jams his sword into my back, and I fall forward to the ground on my chest.

I roll over, and the butt of the blade is in my face, where I am unprotected, because I raised my visor in a smug attitude.

"Now . . . what were you saying about letting your wife come to me?" he breathes, his eyes like flames of glory.

I close my eyes, and concede defeat.

**A/N:**

**If you want to see why I think Isabella putting armor on her knight would be such a sensual experience, watch this youtube video, and then ramp it up about 30 notches since in my story, it's done between lovers: (remove spaces of course)**

** www . /watch?v=sEuhKRhrvRM (this is a youtube video, called Arming a Medieval Knight, and fan fic keeps messing up the link-I'll put it on my facebook group for those of you interested)**

***sigh!* I'll put Sir Edward's breastplate on him any day! ;D**

**BTW, Sir Laurent did not wear chainmail under his armor (unlike this youtube video), because normally, knights did not do this. Chainmail would make it damn near impossible to move, especially during games. It's also very uncomfortable as well. This is why Edward was able to stab him under his armor, by slipping through the cracks, if you were wondering…**

**And also, in case you wanted to know, they did use pounds and ounces back then in England. I almost wanted to say his long sword weighed more than 2 stone, but when I looked it up, that was not correct. So, now you know… His sword was weighed, and came in at 32 pounds. Most armor for a knight weighed around 80 lbs, so they had to be really strong to handle all that bulky weight. I don't know how much the armor on the horse weighed. Probably something crazy like 115? Just guessing there since I'm too lazy to look it up. If you know the answer, tell me, and if I'm wrong on any of my research, feel free to tell me. I don't mind being corrected. I'd rather know so I don't go spouting off false information.**

**Scarlett**


	40. Chapter 40

**Chapter 40: Conspiracies**

Isabella jumps down off the horse, and is in my arms.

We are on the ground, making a spectacle of ourselves.

The crowd is all whispering over my wife's attire.

Henry smirks at her.

"How lovely to see you again, my lady." He bows to her, and his armor clanks, while he sucks in a loud breath from the pain of his tender ribs. His spine straightens slowly, but he's still slightly hunched over. "You will see me within the hour to discuss the fate of your marriage."

Isabella gulps, and I can barely think or breathe, for fear of what he will decree.

Henry walks away, and is surrounded by an entourage.

"I'm sorry, Edward . . . but Sister Victoria was in the woods. She chased me down; she was on James' horse. And she was armed with a plancon mace!" she whispers in fright then covers her mouth with one of her little hands.

One of the King's pages trots after us. "His Majesty wants to see you in fifteen minutes in the greeting chamber," he says.

We both nod, and make our way so we will be there when asked for.

Henry is there already when we arrive. Things are being thrown violently in the room, and we listen in the hallway with great trepidation and fear.

The door opens, and we are bid to enter.

"This ends now! She is no longer your wife," Henry says the second we are inside.

I keep my gaze cool. He sees her as a serf he wants to own, control, and bed. Has he not found enough mistresses at court to do what he wants to him in his chambers?

"Sire, what harm? What harm does it do you or the kingdom if I am married to a commoner? Do you not see how that is advantageous to you? It does not give me more power or the future possibility of rising up against you," I persuade.

He blinks at me in astonishment.

I hope Isabella is not affronted at my ungracious way of all but calling her a peon.

If she is hurt by it, she does not let on. Her chin is tipped up and her shoulders back with a relaxed stance.

"Stop this. My head aches!" Henry laments.

"Majesty, maybe this is not a good time," she chimes in.

"If you must decide now, then think on this also . . . you were supposed to best me with valor and fairness today with the sword. I was distracted by my wife being pursued and then coming to me for help. You took advantage of my weakness. That was not gallant in the least. Do you wish court to think you a fink?" I wait for him to buckle. He hates being thought inferior or less than. His vanity will not allow it.

"Tomorrow. Tomorrow we joust, and I win. You have an annulment and she goes back to being in a stable, where she belongs," he says, tilting his chin at my wife.

"This is right," I agree with him.

We are dismissed, and Isabella and I return to our chambers.

Once there, she recounts how Victoria was arrayed in a red robe, and flew at her, trying to strike her down.

At the mention of the blood red color she wore, Isabella goes sick, and flies at the garderobe to relieve her stomach.

I convince her to avoid going to supper tonight. It is a relief to have a reason to remain behind. I, myself, do not think to be able to stomach Henry and his bravado tonight either.

.

.

.

After missing the meal and vexing the King, Henry delineates every little detail for me. I am to have a squire for our joust—another knight in training—dress and undress me in my armor. My wife is not to be in the stall or riding today. She is to dress with modicum. It was decided by way of letters between us during the night that he would overlook her transgression to dress that way yesterday if I win today. If I do not, he can use the full effect of the sumptuary laws, which could amount to death.

I do not think he would go that far since he covets her severely, but still . . . it is worrisome.

She is required to sit and watch the action today. I suspect it is so he can impress her—it is for his benefit, not mine, to have her there.

I will be distracted if she gasps in fright while I am tilting.

Both Jasper and Emmett will be jousting today, and I will compete all the day long with the best knights available.

First I have to best Henry though. He upped the ante, saying I had to be the last knight standing today, not only beat him.

With pleasure. I will flatten him for this.

When my page, Garrett, is done suiting me up in my armor, I am ready to ride.

I ride Knicklom, to prove a point to Henry. Not only am I not using my strongest, fastest horse, Grayson, but I am riding _her_ horse. It should burn him to an immeasurable amount.

I mount my destrier, and walk him on to the jousting green. Knicklom whinnies when he sees Isabella not far from us. She gives a gracious smile, and I give a twisted half smile back which makes her blush.

Memories of last night's exertions in our chamber flood my mind, and I remember the way she smelled and sounded. My darling wife was entertaining all the night long—I should have slept to rest up for today, but how could I deny her? She was using that new form of kissing on me; all over my body and it was nothing short of euphoria to have her tongue in areas I thought she would never deign to explore with her mouth.

I did not even have to ask. She did it on her own with a reckless passion about her.

I exhale and shake off those memories so I can focus.

I will win today. There is no way I can let her go. Henry will stay true to his word, and Isabella and I will leave this place unscathed. He won't have touched her, and I will still retain my titles, lands, and the most precious wife known to man.

Henry rides up and then trots along the front of the crowd. He bows to his wife, who gives him favor. Then he has the audacity to affront his wife by approaching mine.

He begs her for favor too, but she proudly announces that she already gave it to me.

Which she has. I wear the shirt she wore yesterday when she was riding, and I smell exactly like her and our love since she wore it when I was later holding and stroking her. It is a unique type of favor—one no other knight would ever dream of.

I smirk.

Henry sulks, and then rides to a few other ladies. Of course Anne gives him her favor, and he looks the knave with more than one favor to ride with. He tucks them all into his breastplate.

"Ready?" my esquire, Demetri, asks me. He left the final armor to my page, even though he was directed not to do so. He was busy with some maid, very impatient to have him.

I cared not.

Garrett is trusted, and I prefer him to suit me up if not Isabella.

I nod to express my readiness.

"Lance," I say calmly.

I slide my visor down, and he hands it to me.

"Good luck, Sir Edward," he says, and pats my horse like he's a fan of Knicklom.

Of course he is. He saw her riding it. What man wouldn't be after that and have a new obsession with my horse?

I smiled at him. Was I going to have to fight every man in the county for her? Did they all want to take her from me?

Turning to the king, I know the answer. If he wants her, then they all will.

I am ready to send a message that in order to get to her, they have to go through me, and I am a stone wall—unwieldy and impenetrable.

The trumpets sound, the flag is waved, and I see only him. His blue eyes ogling my wife and plotting to get her under his bedsheets.

It sickens me he already took Anne's sister when she was fifteen and gave her two children. She was a child! Fiend.

I growl as I near the point of impact.

Henry's eyes are barely visible through the slits in his helmet, and I see the mirth in them.

_Oh, I hate you!_

When I lean forward a thought strikes me. I want to spear right through him over and over again. Once simply will not be enough, so I haul my lance back behind my head, and when the time is right, I strike once in the center of his chest as he misses mine and he hits my shield. Before he knows it, he's leaning back, and I hit again, but this time from the side, unhorsing him immediately. Henry tumbles off the back of the horse, and does almost a full somersault in the air before landing flat on his face.

He screams like a wild banshee in absolute outrageous fury; sand sprayingt the list between us.

I smile as I circle him.

He is already out of the count.

I bested him, and there is nothing to do about it.

Two squires fly to the king's side and help him up.

He pushes them both down and comes barreling toward me.

I make him look the fool as he chases me around while I am horsed, and he is on foot.

"Come down here and fight like a knight!" he bellows.

I slide right off, saunter up to him, and to the shock of all around, I unsheathe my dagger and set it straight at his gullet.

"You are lucky I let you live," I hiss. "I win, and you tuck tail and go back to your harlots, which does not include my wife. That is what you do before I decide to gut you!"

"You stay. You stay here and I will prove my prowess is greater than yours. You may be younger and stronger physically, but you will never be king! You lack the wit for it," he spits.

I lower my dagger. "We stay tonight, and tomorrow we leave with your blessing. You will forget Isabella's name and visage, and we have peace."

He nods, and slowly backs away from me.

I mount my horse and ready for my next victim.

Hopefully I will not kill anybody. Isabella will not like that; she is too tenderhearted.

I already made a deal with Jasper to take the fall when he is to be my opponent. He agreed readily; Alice does not want him to bust up his winsome face. That made me laugh to hear her say that.

Emmett was not easily convinced and declined.

I did not relish the thought of having to unseat him, but I need every advantage I can get with Henry, so losing is not an option.

.

.

.

The day is hot, and Isabella looks troubled with each new rival I face.

It isn't until I have to go against Emmett, that I see something truly upsetting.

Henry returns to the stands, and cajoles Isabella into sitting next to him in his box.

The next thing I know, he is engaging her in a game of cards, or trying to.

She is flustered, and I can barely concentrate.

The horn bleats, and I am off.

My vision blurs a little as I head toward my big oaf of a friend.

"I do not wish to harm you," I say, praying I can knock him off without doing serious damage.

The Lord wills it, and I miraculously aim for his stomach, but at the last minute raise it to his throat. He hits my shoulder, but I almost knock his head off.

He is thrust off the right side of his horse and lands with a thud to the grass on the edges, now matted down and bloody in several large areas.

I win.

Emmett was the last of six knights I was required to joust against.

I ride right over to Isabella. Without a word, I motion for her to come to me.

She obeys. Henry scowls as I lift her from the stands, seat her with me on the saddle and parade her around the green.

The crowd claps; some more enthusiastic than others, but there are no boos or scornful remarks flung her way.

She is well liked.

This can be problematic.

I need to get us out of court forthwith. Before the cracks of court open wide and thrust us to hell.

**A/N:**

**So many of you have made my year by saying you like my crazy a/n's on what it was like during Tudor times and tidbits from my research.**

**Here's another one to add to the story…**

**A few jousting terms:**

**Tilting = same as jousting. Interchangeable terms. Sometimes also called reveling.**

**Lists = the frame work that runs along the long path the horses trod for the joust. It's what separates the two lanes of the opponents and was usually made of wood.**

**This one has nothing to do with jousting, but I'd thought I'd let you know what a garderobe is. It's a latrine. Henry had even better. He used a closed-stool. Basically a toilet but more crude. It was like a wooden box with a lid, and Henry VIII was said to have one with a satin cushioned seat.**

**Some of the most valued chambers had closed stools or garderobes covered atop with cloth or a cushion to make it more comfortable and to their liking.**

**The garderobe was basically a plank of wood with a round hole cut in it and a lid of sorts to go over it. It had a chute that went through basic plumbing under the castle and emptied out into the Thames River. It's one of the reasons the water was so polluted and unfit to drink. It's also why when they went by barge anywhere, they burned incense and wore herbs, because not only did the raw sewage from their bodies pass into there, but also waste from kitchen scraps were dumped in the river as well. Ewwww!**

**Common folk used a chamber pot at home, and in public, there were latrines that were sometimes nothing more than a long trough like pit, covered in a slab of wood with holes cut out of it. It was a row of garderobes, called the house of easement or common jakes. See why most men pissed on walls or out in the open? It wasn't as smelly. In fact, in court, to stop men from doing this out of habit, since Henry knew it could spread disease, they painted red crosses on the walls inside court. It worked. Nobody wanted to desecrate the holy cross. Henry even put stone proto-types of urinals in the gardens for the men, to keep them from pissing on the outer walls of the castles as well. Ingenious, I tell ya!**

**Before Henry, they used to dump it all in the motes around castles, and it would stink to high heaven and cause issues with disease. Henry was a visionary in that he cleaned up the motes, no longer allowed this to happen. In fact, he stocked the motes with fresh fish to be caught for eating and he kept the entire castle smelling good so it would not keep visitors away. What a smart King!**

**In fact, the sanitary improvements and laws Henry VIII made, remained unimproved and unchanged for over 2 centuries after he made them. That's how forward thinking and brilliant this man was.**

**Scarlett**


	41. Chapter 41

**Chapter 41: Round of Blows**

We are not allowed to miss the feast tonight. It does not matter if Isabella is unwell or if I need to rest after being battered. It is commanded, and we comply.

"Wife, you take care what you say to Henry tonight. He is even more enamored of you. I have no doubt I may have to kill him in order for us to ever leave here."

She gasps, and covers her mouth, affrighted. "Truly? You think it is as bad as that?"

"I do. I keep a watchful eye, and his head is turned more often than not, to you; even over Anne, his well known mistress." I pat her hand on my arm with my free hand to bring her comfort. "I will never allow him to touch you. That is a promise."

She smiles weakly and her step falters. There is hesitation in both of us.

The hall is very festive, and the music raucous as soon as we enter.

I lead her over to the empty spot next to Henry, and he immediately stands and bows to her.

The entire room stills and quiets, completely flabbergasted by the King's move.

I do not know what to do. What option have I but to stand and gawk at the scene before me.

Henry takes her hand off my arm, kisses her knuckles with a sultry smile, and moves her hastily to the dance floor.

"But we eat first," Isabella blurts.

"Oh, but it will be a little while, and I am tired of sitting, my fair lady. Let us dance to work up an appetite," he says.

_You are sneakier than a serpent!_

I scowl at him, and Lauren comes up from behind, her hand rests on my shoulder.

"Sir Edward, perhaps you will have a better vantage point if you dance too?" she offers.

I was unaware she was even here at court.

"With _you_? I would much rather take a dagger to the thigh," I say quietly so she alone can hear me.

"I can arrange that, but right now your wife is troubled. Do you not think it would ease her somewhat to have you close by, and be prudent in keeping yourself within arms length? You might be able to hear their words as well."

As much as I despise this woman and have no desire to touch her, she is right.

"Let us away, then," I say, and have her on the dance floor.

Henry moves swiftly, and deftly across the floor, keeping my Isabella out of my reach.

The rage inside me boils over, when he finally leans over to whisper in her ear, all the while smiling at me.

He taunts, and my muscles coil to strike.

I care not my sinews and joints are stiff and exhausted. He will pay!

Lauren is a willing accomplice and she helps me bring us closer to hear his murmurings.

". . . will come to my bedchamber tonight. If you do not, he dies . . ." I hear parts of what Henry whispers to her.

Before I can wring his neck, and reduce his six-foot-four frame to a stain on the floor, Isabella pulls her arm back and smacks his face . . . _Hard_!

Henry stumbles back, his expression nothing but pure unadulterated shock.

"You dare to strike the King?" Lauren shrieks.

And just as Henry's whole body shakes, ready to explode with rage, I grip my wife around the waist and run.

I do not look back.

There is no time, and they will be after us.

I take no thought for our things. They can be replaced, but my Isabella cannot.

My whole body aches, and each bruise sends searing pain straight into my head as my body screams at me to stop and put her down. But my heart will not allow it.

I pummel my way through the servants in the kitchens and hurl us out the back exit.

The stables are nearby, and Isabella knows exactly what I am doing.

She runs faster than any woman should be capable of, and she's before me.

"Ride, my wife. I will be behind you. Go to Jacob's!" I say, whelping her horse on the flank the second she is on his back.

Poor Knicklom. He was ridden into the ground today, and I pray he can handle this and her light weight will not impede his stride.

While I am scrambling to get atop Grayson, hoards of servants, soldiers and none other than the King himself, burst out the doors Isabella and I escaped from.

"Stop them! They are traitors to the crown!" Henry cries.


	42. Chapter 42

**Chapter 42: The Mark**

Grayson is ready, and I dig my heels in and we are an arrow, tearing through the wind.

Isabella is riding so swiftly I can barely spot her in the dark ahead of me.

She is several yards away, and I do not want them to pursue her, so I head the opposite way.

I am confident the trees will be good cover for her, and she is my bird that knows how to fly away and hide when the wolves come around.

My heart pounds in my head, my throat constricts, and I silently scream for her to arrive in safety.

It is torture to be away from her and not be able to see with my own eyes that she is safe from the King's clutches.

Loud horns rip through the night air as the chase is under way.

I am a treasonous villain to them, and they will obey their king.

No matter if they have battle axes, arrows or maces . . .

_Maces?_

_Victoria?_

_No!_

I quickly round back, hidden by the thickets of the forest to where Isabella was last seen by me.

Hopefully they will not have adequate visual acuity to see my tracks.

It has not rained in many moons, so the earth is dry, which means the hoof imprints will be minimal.

"Ushh, ush, c'mon, Grayson, find Knicklom . . . Ush," I hiss into my charger's ear.

With renewed vigor, Grayson increases his pace.

There she is!

I see her!

My _wife_ . . .

"Get her; do not stop 'til she be beside me!" I tell him, excited.

It takes several minutes to catch up to her, but when I do, the panic sets in from hearing the mob coming upon us, so I reach out and grip her by the arm.

We stop our horses for a moment. My arm shakes, but I must do it. I pick her up, and she moves to standing on Knicklom's saddle, while keeping the reins in her left hand. I grapple around her waist and sit her down in my lap—on my saddle.

She faces me, and hugs me to her.

"I thought they might catch you!" she cries, muffled into my chest.

"Never. Not even hell can keep me away from you," I assure her, and mash my lips into her hair atop her head.

She sobs into my doublet, and I wish we were skin-to-skin, and I could find the words to calm her troubled spirit.

"That's what you will have to do, because that is where I am going . . ." she says, barely loud enough for me to hear.

"Hush, dear wife. Do not say these things to me," I say, and take Knicklom's reins from her. I tie them up quickly to Grayson's saddle, and glance over my shoulder.

I see nothing.

But I hear.

They are coming.

I dig back in and Grayson bolts with Knicklom following his lead.

They will find us.

We must hide well.

_Oh, Isabella . . . teach me to be a tiny bird that can hide for eternity! I desire to stay in your nest with you._

"We can't go to Jacob's. They will kill all of those orphans if we lead them there," I tell her.

"Where to, then?"

"You tell me. You are the one who knows how to hide," I say, snorting at the irony. It is my sole responsibility to protect my fair heart, and here I am, an experienced knight, asking my wife to keep us safe.

How is this normal?

But then we are both backward in our relationship.

She speaks her mind, and I not only encourage it, but demand it.

I beg her to be aggressive with her lust for me, and she gives it to me in overwhelming amounts.

These are not becoming actions of a chivalrous gentleman.

I shrug these idle thoughts off. They do me no good.

"Go to Jacob's. I will hide us, and they will never even know we passed that way at all," she says.

I listen.

I pray, and listen.

Isabella knows.

She always does, so I do as she bids, riding off faster into the night.


	43. Chapter 43

**Chapter 43: Safely Tucked Away**

The horses tire, but we cannot stop.

Isabella finds a way to turn around at some point, and she pets, coos and hums into Grayson's ear, stoking the last few remnants of energy from him.

The dull roar of followers behind us has lessened substantially, but they have not given up. Not all.

It is vexing to say the least.

Jacob's orchard is several yards ahead, and Isabella doesn't ask—she yanks the reins out of my hands and takes control.

I cinch her tight to my chest, with my arms about her waist.

The mystery of where she hid from me so long ago, is at my fingertips, and I am all but jumping out of my skin.

"I love you; I desire you know that," I whisper into her ear, and kiss her lobe several times.

She hunches up her shoulders, and gives a lighthearted giggle.

It is good to know even when we are in peril, I can still make her smile and give her a small moment of happiness.

The orchard engulfs us, and the smell of rich, tangy apples surrounds us. I worry the horses will kick up a din about not being fed these tasty treats, but to my amazement, they do nothing of the sort.

They are focused, and listening to Isabella's words.

Do they somehow understand her?

I guess the same power she has to possess me, works on them as well.

"Just a little ways more," she whispers, and we slow to a gentle trot.

My stomach is in knots, worried she should not be slowing to this pace.

"Down, there," she points ahead, and I see nothing.

"Where?" I cry quietly, frustrated.

"There is a fissure in the ground, and it is barely discernible. You will crawl in first, and then I will cover it with leaves and debris. We will let the horses go loose."

"But they will amble around this area so they can eat the apples," I argue. "They will give our cover away."

"They thirst. The necessity will overtake them, and they will remember the creek behind the property. They will meander that way, and probably even douse themselves in the water. In the shroud of darkness, they will not be detected. Trust me, my husband," she pleads.

There is no time to disagree, so I cross myself and slip her lithe body to the ground.

She scurries over to the spot she swears will hide us.

My eyes still see nothing but trees and dirt.

"Hurry, swiftly!" she hisses.

I jump down, help her off and untie Knicklom so he has freedom of movement and is not tethered to Grayson. Next, I swat them on their haunches to make them flee the area, and then I go after her, since she is already creeping amongst the trees.

"Down. Get down low," she whispers, and then she lurches forward right after I do, and she covers my mouth.

A spike of ice races down my back when I realize . . . We are _not_ alone.

Her hand pulls me forward, and we quickly crawl on our bellies like snakes hidden in the grass.

She motions to the spot she wants me, and when I move over there, the earth is soft; crumbly.

My foot suddenly dips, and I can feel an opening. Wide eyed, and even a little terrified of being enclosed in a makeshift tomb in the dead of night, I decide to trust her.

She kisses me silently, and then shoves my whole body into the crevice.

I reach out for her, and yelp a little when she pushes my hand away.

_Don't be away from me, wife! I need you. You must be safe!_

Tears slip out of the cracks of my eyes, as I lie on my side, pressed up against the wall of earth.

I hear the sound of her scratching lightly at branches, leaves, dirt. Some of the rubble rains down inside on top of me, but I remain still and silent.

A moment later, she wiggles her way down inside, and places her body directly over mine then fixes the dirt over top of us.

I don't like her being so vulnerable.

If they find us, she can be hurt.

Ever so cautiously, I swap spots with her, and she is on the bottom, and I am on top.

My weight presses into her, which is regrettable, but I have peace of mind.

They will always have to go through me to get to her.

Her small hands wrap around me in what I think is a grateful hug, but it is not.

She rearranges the leaves and muck above us so we are completely camouflaged.

"I love you," she says in a wisp of breath.

I kiss her mouth, and don't let go.

It is not loud.

Nobody will hear, and I have no intention of taking my lips off hers.

If I am to be hewn down, then I die kissing my beloved wife.

**A/N:**

**Now you know how she mysteriously vanished all those months ago when he tried to find her in the orchard. She's crazy smart, isn't she?**

**Hope you weren't too worried about these two…**

**Scarlett**


	44. Chapter 44

**Chapter 44: Another Way**

Despite the cramped area, and the paranoia of being searched for, we both fall asleep.

The blood pumping hot in our veins, cooled, and we both succumbed to slumber.

Light filters in, twisting and turning through the cover above us.

I hear nothing but birds chirping, animals romping around, and Isabella's measured, meted out breaths.

Slowly, trying not to wake her, I brush away a portion of some of the compost above my head, and peek out.

There is nobody around.

I marvel that they did not burn the orchard down.

That would have been my tactic.

But then I hesitate—they could be inside the home—Jacob's home we converted into an orphanage.

If they hurt those children, Isabella will blame and never forgive herself.

I worm my way out of our three foot deep crack in the earth.

Sleep, my love . . . Don't worry about anything.

I relieve myself quickly in a thick area of greenery, and then grab an apple to munch on as I ascertain if we are still being followed or not. I need to find my horses too.

I pad my way through the orchard, still smiling a little at how sneaky my little bird was to hide this way from me when I tried to find her myself in the past.

When I reach the edge of the apple trees, I find my two horses ambling around, eating apples to their heart's content.

I pat them with a smile on my face, and then head toward the property.

There is not a soul around.

The sun is barely up.

I walk up the path to the house, and now I know why Isabella's skirts always smelled of flowers.

There are low bushes of heather and lavender that hedge the way on both sides, and the path is not wide at all. Her skirts would probably tangle in them, and infuse their scent. This is my Isabella's intoxicating smell: apples, hay, lavender and heather.

What a heady combination.

I take a deep inhalation, and quietly knock at the door.

Nobody answers. It must be locked.

Surely?

When I push to try to get inside, the door budges under my might, but not enough for me wedge in. I throw more weight into the old, warped door, and am able to squeeze through the gap.

When I am inside, there are two young girls gossiping by the fire and drinking what I suspect might be cider.

". . . and when he takes me to his bed, I'll prove that stupid girl Anne is not fit for a king." She giggles.

I recognize her voice, and her blonde hair. She has a tinkling, high pitched, very innocent sounding voice—though her topic of conversation is anything but sweet.

It is Jane from the abbey—the girl that helped me.

I listen for a moment more without them knowing it, to hear what the other girl with her might say.

"You're too old; I hear he likes them really young, like Anne's sister. He had a child with her when she was merely fifteen," the other blonde, dirty girl says.

"I'm nineteen—just like his beloved Anne and that supposed woman he was searching for last night. And anyway, you're only two years younger than I. I have more skill than you do with a man and—" She stops talking abruptly and gasps when she sees me.

Her shaking finger points at me, and I prepare for Jane to scream, but she forbears. Neither does the other girl. They both stare at me, and have an air of being resigned about them. Do they believe I will molest them?

I hold my hands up, to show I am peaceable.

"Mistresses, I need help. My wife and I are the reason you reside here, rather than that deplorable cesspool of an abbey. We are being hunted by . . ." I contemplate how much to tell them, since they both have aspirations to be a mistress of the king himself ". . . royals."

They nod in sync.

"We will of course help you, Sir Edward, and your wife. We've heard about her," Jane says.

"We need some food, and then we'll away," I say.

"Where is your wife?" the other one asks.

"I left her safe in hiding, but I'll retrieve her now so we can get on our way." I turn to go back to my little bird, but I'm too late. She is squeezing her way in the door.

"_Isabella_ . . . ?" Jane chirps.

"Jane . . ." my wife answers coldly. I have never seen her give such an icy reception to anybody. Not even Henry when he was trying to woo her, and Isabella did not want his advances.

"James let you live?" Jane asks. She sounds mildly disappointed with this fact and her tone is patronizing, like my wife is a dolt for not jumping right into Henry's bed.

The overriding expression though from these girls is that they both are envious—realizing this is the woman Henry wants.

A silent, yet profound exchange passes between Jane and my wife—and I am . . . Balling my fists and grinding my teeth. What does Jane know about my little bird that I do not?

"What the devil is going on?" I snap.

They all look at me, but no one answers.


	45. Chapter 45

******Chapter 45: Black Ice**

Isabella chokes back a hint of a sob, and holds her hands out for me to come to her.

I stand stoically still, waiting for an explanation.

"Maybe we should be without an audience before I explain," Isabella says.

"I'll go gather the horses. You eat something quickly and then we leave. You will tell me while we ride what is happening here between you two," I say, staring deep in her eyes.

Isabella bites her lip and nods.

An odd feeling of fear creeps up my spine over the thought of leaving her alone with these two girls.

They are not as strong as my wife, so she can defend herself physically, but mentally and emotionally, they are wild creatures, their claws sharp and ready to extend in the blink of an eye.

There is nothing more dangerous than a beast, thinking it's in danger or being threatened, and they are threatened by my wife since Henry desires her.

"I won't be but a moment," I say, warning them without coming right out and saying I will hurt them if they touch my wife or upset her.

My pace is quick and sure as I head out the back of the large dwelling to find my horses.

They are now by the creek, roaming around.

They look contented and more than happy nibbling on grass and drinking clear water.

I smile and approach Knicklom first. My wife's horse is more dear to me, and if Grayson for some reason decides to bolt and resist me, then I want her to at least have her animal.

They both step toward me and are not skittish.

I grab the reins of both and move them up the slope to the house. When I'm by the entrance, I knock, signaling for Isabella to come out and join me so we can leave.

Nobody answers the door.

What is it with this place and people not answering?

It irritates me.

I hear something crash inside and some yelling.

The reins are forgotten, and I all but tear the door off to get inside.

When the door succumbs to my battering, Isabella screams at somebody I cannot see, "That's not what happened and you know it!"

"Isabella!" I call for her.

She comes running to me, and maneuvers past me in a hurry to leave.

I help her up on Knicklom, and she does not wait or tell me what happened.

She is off, and I am once again chasing after my wife, wondering what is going on in her head.

When we are to the orchard, she slips off the horse for a moment, and begins to vomit up the limited contents in her stomach since she had no dinner last night, or any kind of large breakfast.

She dry heaves, and I go to her side to soothe her.

"They know why I'm damned," she says, choking on her words.

"What do they know?" I ask, my voice low and soft to keep her nerves reasonable.

"Let's leave this place, and I'll tell you along the way." She wipes at some tears in the corners of her eyes, and then mounts Knicklom.

I pluck several apples for her to eat along the way.

She smiles in a withdrawn, dispassionate way. This is not my wife. My wife has spirit—she has fight.

This lady is a shell. I do not know her, and am uncertain I ever desire to.


	46. Chapter 46

**Chapter 46: Hidden**

We ride in silence for awhile, and Isabella quietly keens.

There is no talk about where we can go and hide in safety, but I know of a place. Without asking or telling her, I make the choice.

When we are in a thick area of wood, I do what a man does. I reach for my wife and pull her off her horse once more, and place her on mine.

That is all I know how to do. She needs to be held, I have to steer the horses, and I do not know what else to do in our circumstances.

I need her near in this moment as well.

"Edward . . . no," she protests, trying to push me away when I press her to my bosom.

"Do not struggle," I tell her, but take care to use a gentle tone.

"I do not deserve this, my lord," she says.

Her face is turned away, and she acts as if she cannot bear the sight of me.

"Please, wife. You may not need me, but I need you, and I will most certainly be damned if I allow space to come between us."

She stops struggling, but does not speak.

I dodge a low branch, and Knicklom escapes it as well.

Isabella kept the reins for him when I transferred her over to Grayson.

I take them from her little hand; she was fisting it tightly.

Her hands shake.

I knot the reins to the saddle we are on, so Knicklom will keep pace, and I don't have to worry about him following.

Not that he would stray. He's trained well, but I want to be focused solely on the most imperative tasks at hand: her sanity, mine as well, and where we are headed.

It will be a long journey, and I am unsure if we will be welcomed the way I hope, but we are out of options.

Where we are going is a far ways from court, but I'm glad of it. I think she will be too.

"Please do not hold this in. I cannot bear it. Tell me what vexes you so and makes you think yourself irredeemable," I beg.

She scoots back on the saddle, creating space between us. My heart drops into my seat.

Isabella looks me in the eye with a soft, almost doting expression on her face. Her fingers run through my hair starting at my forehead, and then stroke around my ear, finally cupping my jaw.

"I will miss this vibrant colored hair, this strong, masculine jaw and these beautiful soulful eyes. I will miss touching you this way," she says, saddened.

I pull her hand off my face and press her palm over my heart.

"There is nothing you can do to remove yourself out of my soul. I do not care if you have slaughtered an entire village and drank their blood. You are my fair heart, and I love you," I profess.

Her lax jaw, hardens a little, and her gaze goes impassive.

"You may thrust me off your horse when you hear that you are not far from the truth," she says.

I palm her hand, keeping it in place as a symbol of where she will stay.

"Tell me, wife. Do it now, for I burst inside over not knowing," I plead.

"I did not slaughter a village, but I killed my parents," she says softly.

My heart stops beating.

I am dead.

I have to be.

My Isabella could never hurt anybody.

I try to speak, but my mouth is parched and my throat constricts on me and does not function properly.

"_Parents _. . . ?" I croak, licking my lips to gain a little moisture. There is none to be had.

"Do you know why I came to help you when you had the sweat upon you?" she asks.

"I rather hoped it was because you felt something for me," I say.

"No."

"No?" My face falls.

She leans forward a little. "I mean I did feel something for you, but that's not why I came to you."

"Why? Tell me," I demand.

"Eleven years ago the sweating sickness struck my village. My parents both caught it. We had money; enough I could fetch a physician, but when they were both burning, I ran and hid. For three days they were on fire inside, the moisture beading on their body, yet I did nothing. They cried, yelled and begged for mercy. They asked me to help them, but I tucked myself up under my bed in my covers and hid my head. I listened to their anguished cries of suffering, but I did not move."

Tears splatter in her lap, moistening her dress.

"I'm a monster, Edward."

"You were a little girl. There was nothing you could have done." I fiddle with the numbers in my head quickly. "An eight year old cannot deal with something of this magnitude. You are not to blame."

"You have not heard all," she continues.

I stare at her dark, somber eyes and wish I could stroke the fires back up inside of her. Give her back her nerve.

But it is not for me to do that. She has to do it herself.

"When they were stiff and brittle from death, I crept out of my hiding spot and wandered outside to get away from the stench of death. A passerby found me and brought me to the orphanage. When I arrived, the sweating sickness was rampant there too. When the nuns fell sick, I snuck out and hid in the peach orchard. For six days I subsisted on the fruit and watched from the shadows like a ghoul as dead bodies were hauled out one after another. Finally the nuns collapsed and expired too. When they were all gone, Sister Victoria was brought in to take over. I joined her and she puzzled it out. She figured out who and what I was immediately. She made sure to let me know all the time I was condemned and past hope of saving."

She sniffs and wipes away tears.

I caress the back of her hand, move up her wrist and then plunge my fingers into her hair. My hand hugs her head and pulls her to me.

She may not want to be held, but _I_ need this.

"There is no blame on you," I reiterate.

"I was the only one that could help them. Innocents. They were children all, and I cowered while they came to their end. I can never be forgiven. But I try to make amends. I help all who need it, and you were the first person I helped to keep death at bay from the very same illness," she says. She offers a contrite smile and it breaks my heart.

"Do you think God condemns me for all of the men I killed in the battlefield or that I will kill in the future?"

She shakes her head no right away.

"And what of the men I demolish on the jousting green or with a sword in tournaments? Do I go to hell for that as well?"

Again, adamant head shakes saying nay.

"How is that any different than what you did? You have a will to survive, and God put that in you. We all have it, and as a small child you could not have chosen any different. I am proud of you that you saw it was a battle you could not win and protected yourself. Yes, I am a selfish bastard to think this way, but you were meant to find me. We cannot be apart," I say.

Isabella folds in on herself and slumps forward.

I take the opportunity to hold her and mash my lips into her crown where her invisible halo resides.

"I love you. Nothing changes that. Nothing at all," I say.

"I do not deserve it." More head shakes.

I run my fingers over her temples on both sides of her head and clasp my fingers in her hair, tipping her head up so I can kiss her.

"If you want to hurt me deeply, you will keep on in this manner and destroy yourself. If you love me, which you have said you do, you will cease. Victoria is the evil one, not you. This stops now. You will let go of the chains she affixed to your soul. Only you can choose to carry them, but I say you do not need them. You never did, my fair heart. Let go . . ."

She looks at me with hope, and wraps her arms around me, peppering my jaw and neck with happy little kisses.

"I love you so much. And I will try . . . I will," she promises.

"And that is all I can ask. For now, rest, little bird. We go to Ireland," I tell her.

Her head pops up. "Ireland?"

"Yes. I have land there and it is where some of my ancestry hails from," I explain.

Where did she think my red hair and green eyes came from?

I get it on both sides; Scots and Irish. My parents were an interesting combination of gentry and genes.


	47. Chapter 47

**Chapter 47: Green and Such**

Annaghdown Castle is drafty, cold and bleak to look upon, and as such was a place I failed to visit often in my youth, but my mother loved it.

It was home for her. She grew up there.

Isabella was lulled to sleep in my saddle while I rode us on.

I am about to collapse with exhaustion, but I must press now.

As I lead Knicklom out of the trees, he whinnies at the sight of the water before us.

I unleash him, and he gallops for a drink.

Grayson will have to wait a good twenty minutes before I am at the gate, have my wife off him and settled on her feet, before I release him.

With my vision blurred from lack of sleep, Emmett comes running out of the castle, yelling at me.

"I knew it! I knew this was where you would come," he says, smiling so wide I think I can count all his teeth.

Rosalie runs out after him a second later, and she is grinning as widely.

"You were right," she says.

They hug each other in celebration of our arrival, and I am confused as to why they are here. Why did they look for us?

"How now? What's this?" I ask.

Emmett races over to my side and reaches for my lady.

I gingerly pass her down.

My arms tingle at the coolness of her absence.

I do not like it much, so I drag my hands down my face to cover my unintentional frown.

My doublet is sweaty from where her body leaned up against me in search of cushioning.

If she is well rested then I am pleased.

I would do it again for her. _Anything_ for her.

"We ran away," Emmett explains as I get down from Grayson.

Rosalie tends to my horse, smiling all the while.

"From what? From whom?" I question.

"We saw you run with your woman, and we decided to do the same. We eloped, and then came here. We join you. I am your first in command. King Henry is angry with you, and he means to rip the country apart to get at you and . . . _her_," he says, dipping his head and motioning with his chin toward my limp wife in his arms.

"Has he . . . put a price on our heads?" I ask, fearful of the answer.

"Not yet. It is a matter of time." He smiles apologetically.

"Friend, you do well to turn back and beg his mercy and pardon," I say.

"Never. I can't go back. Rosalie is my wife, and she carries my child. We are family, and I will not renounce her or—"

"Okay, peace, my friend. I will tolerate your presence," I tease.

He laughs, and Isabella is jolted awake.

"Who . . . where . . . ?" she asks, disoriented.

"It's okay, little one," he tells her, and sets her down carefully.

She all but collapses into me.

I hold her about the shoulders, and guide her inside.

"Home. For now anyway," I tell her, propelling her forward to enter the walls.

The south entrance is gaping open like frightening jaws since Emmett opened the doors wide.

"It is warm at least," Emmett offers.

I grimace. All my memories attest to the opposite about this place. I was never warm here.

We step inside and Isabella eyes the surroundings.

The candles flicker when we pass them by.

There is not much by way of decorations, and the furniture is basic, maybe even a little crude in nature, but I do remember mother made sure the bed chambers were cozy and the beds comfortable.

There is nowhere else I want my wife right now than tucked up on the mattress at my side while we sleep for an entire week. My thoughts are nothing but chaste toward my wife right now—that is how limp I am with need of rest.

This weariness reminds me of the way I feel when I get back from a battle.

"We got to bed. Thank you, Emmett, Rose," I say, nodding at them.

"Before you depart, Sire," Emmett interjects, "you should know . . . you are not alone. We are not the only ones that tried to follow after you."

Both Isabella and my eyes go wide in surprise.

"What d'you mean?" I ask.

"I mean you have the beginnings of an army at your disposal. Isabella is quite popular, and almost half the men at court pretended to be hunting her down for Henry, but then defected. They are loyal to her, and now to you," he explains.

Isabella gasps besides me, but it sounds more like a pitiful little mewl, she is so weakened.

"Breathe, wife. I think you need the air," I say.

She may faint for the pallor of her face is a sickly green.

I ready myself to carry her away to our chamber.


	48. Chapter 48

**Chapter 48: For Queen and Country**

Emmett spoke true.

Hundreds of men followed Emmett in the chance he was on the right track.

He is better than a hunting dog, predicting where my little bird and I would land.

Even I did not know where to go until we were running for awhile.

My makeshift army stands right outside my castle.

We have been here two weeks, and they are waiting for my word to go after Henry.

There are not enough of us, and more in-depth training is needed. Oh, this is good.

At least most of them are of a decent age . . . Well, most of them. There are a few underage and old men, disgruntled by Henry's reign. They most likely will be limited on the battlefield, but their heart is in it.

Isabella tends to gravitate to the older men. I idly wonder if they remind her of her father she feels she failed to save.

"We have no money to supply them with weapons," I whisper to Emmett.

"With our combined treasuries, we will," he responds.

"You would do that?" I ask, my voice going up in pitch as my eyes fly up.

"I would." He shoves me over playfully, and starts barking orders at the men.

He gathers the men, owning horses and teaches them how to ride like true horsemen.

The troops respond well to his personality.

I take the foot soldiers and improve their hand-to-hand combat skills.

Isabella trains with the. I urge her to return to the castle and keep Rosalie company, but she will not.

Stubborn woman. I love her, but good God!

I worry she will get hurt.

Isabella is adorable wielding my cumbersome sword, but again, I anticipate her accidentally taking her toes off by dropping it.

She is more likely to lose a limb at her own hands than actually take a soldier down.

"Is this correct?" she asks me, swinging in an impressive arc.

She _is_ getting stronger.

And I will enjoy massaging her aching muscles tonight in bed, but still . . .

This is absurd and a waste of her time.

She whips my long sword around with her tongue sticking out in concentration. The strain is evidenced in the grunt she gives right before she drops it and doubles over, clutching at her side.

"You don't feel well," I observe.

"Aye," she affirms, barely able to lift her head and look up at me through her lashes.

"Rest. There is no shame in it," I encourage her.

She is dauntless, and abandons my longsword, exchanging it for my dagger.

"I have to learn. The pain is not worth me bowing out and languishing in the castle corridors with Rosalie," she insists.

"Ahhh!" I snarl. "You and your unlimited obstinacy will put me in an early grave."

She rolls her eyes at me.

"I fight like the rest. I perish in the field like the common people who fight with us. Teach me, fair heart. I will try so hard not to disappoint you." Her bright brown eyes lure me in.

"Fine! But you do not presume to tell me you will continue on when you have had enough. I know when a soldiers muscles are taxed beyond their limit. You have already done your utmost today with riding, learning to shoot arrows and now this too. See Emmett's group yonder?" I ask, pointing him out.

"On the banks cornering the castle?" she inquires.

"Aye, the very same. Even they know to stop, eat, and catch their breath. You keep vomiting from overexertion. This is not well. I cannot abide you harming yourself anymore. So, if you keep doing this—"

"You talk more than the old gossiping ladies at court," she teases, cutting me off.

She smacks my arm and runs away from me, goading me to give chase.

I do.

She is hard to catch, slippery little bird she is, but I force her out into the boggy waters.

I slosh after her and she squeals with delight when I pick her up and lug her over my shoulder.

"Rest, woman. Take care to have energy for tonight's activities. I need you more in the bedchamber than I do out here in the training sessions," I say, squeezing the back of her right thigh as I plow through the mud and bracken to get her back to the castle where she belongs.

Woman does not ever seem to know her place or role.

I do love this about her, but it is exhausting at times. She is distracting; needs more attention and help than the men. And I cannot deny her my eyes, my ears, and hands.

Her effort is commendable. She's simply small, and even though she is well-muscled for a woman, these implements of war were not designed with a five-foot-three maiden with a slim waist and curvy body.

"If you join me for lunch inside then I'll stay indoors for the remainder of the day," she vows.

"Wife, you bargain with a hard fist," I joke.

When we pass by Rosalie, sewing in the sitting room, the woman looks dour.

"How now, Rosalie?" Bella asks.

I set my wife down and smirk at her.

She smiles back fleetingly, then ensconces her friend in a hug.

"I have . . . spotting," Rosalie admits.

"What? Your courses are trying to return?" I blurt.

She ducks her head, ashamed a man is taking initiative to discuss womanly matters with her.

I am worried for her; propriety and politeness be damned.

"I think so . . . I have pains too. I . . . am afraid the baby is dying inside me," she says, and the tears come unbidden.

"I'll bring Emmett to attend to you," I tell her.

"No!" she cries and reaches out for me to halt my actions.

"He is the father. He must be here to help you," I say, my throat dry and my jaw twitching.

"He is busy, and it may be for naught. I am a high strung woman; he knows this. It does no good for him to wait on a cushion, staring at me while I drink ale, sew and occasionally moan at the pinching inside my womb."

I rake my fingers through my hair, digging into my scalp. "This is not right. I am lord here, and I say he joins you at your side. I can take his men and train a larger group today." I stand to my full height and loom over both of them. "Isabella will stay with you as well. She can help."

Isabella nods and smiles at Rosalie, and then pets her hair tenderly.

"Edward . . . what if . . . what if God is punishing me . . . you know, for running away?" Rosalie's timid voice squeaks like the chair she shifts around in as a swell of pain takes hold of her and her face contorts in pain. "Oh . . . this _hurts_!"

Her hands press to her abdomen and it is all I need to see.

Isabella pats and whispers loving things to her as I leave to find her husband.

I happen upon him as he tears off a chunk of bread from the blanket of food in front of him and takes a swig of ale.

He is drinking and making merry while his wife suffers.

Something inside me snaps.

"How do you do it? Be so unassuming while others around you hurt?" I holler.

Emmett startles and drops his mug, splashing his breeches.

"Edward? Your voice carries, man. I am not deaf. No need to shout," he scolds me with a smile.

Everything is a jest, a lark to him.

I cannot abide it.

"Your wife is in pain inside. She does not dare disturb you from your party out here, because she esteems you more important than she is. My wife consoles her as she doubles over in pain and worries over your seed inside of her that is threatening to come out too soon. Get you hence inside before I break my sword over your head!" I yell.

He soldiers up, jumps to his feet and runs inside.

"All of you men are with me today. You eat the rest of your slop and then join me in the marsh in five minutes. I put you through rigorous drills today. And if any complaints reach my ears, I will find ways to make you sorry," I order.

Not one murmur occurs, and they do as they are told.

I will train them today without my wife's gaze on me. There is much to do.


	49. Chapter 49

**Chapter 49: Stubborn Does It**

Isabella does not hold true to her word.

I have the men running sword play that afternoon with thick tree branches and am trying to keep them from gouging each others eyes out or scratching their skin off.

She is morose as she drags her way over to me.

"If you are tired then do not be here," I say to her, my mood sour.

She marches right up to me and slaps me hard.

"Wife! Don't!" I snarl, grabbing her hand.

"Rosalie's baby is in the open. It passed from her body, and she is lying in her blood, crying for you. She wants your blessing and you talk to me thus?" she cries.

"Oh . . . I . . . right away, wife. I join her at her side," I say, my tone penitent.

"I apologize," she says.

"Thank you, goodly wife," I respond.

"No, you knave. You say this to me: 'I apologize for being crass, brusque and entirely too rude. I am lower than the mud on my shoe.'" She firms her hands on her hips and her eyes narrow at me.

I smile for a second until I realize she is in earnest.

"Uh . . . a king does not apologize like that," I tell her, my voice shaky, my hands bunched in fists at my sides.

"How do they apologize? By ravaging their wife in bed and calling it complete when they are snoring loudly?" She turns on her heel, preparing to depart.

I grab her by the shoulders and turn her back around.

"They do not apologize at all," I explain.

"Try."

"Try what?" My brow furrows and the space between my heart and my stomach narrows.

"Try winning back my favor, for tonight you will not bed with me," she says, her melodious voice soft and full of pain.

"Isabella . . . I . . . It is not in my bones to say those things," I tell her.

"But I am in your heart. You said so. And if that is so, then you feel my pain. Apologize, Edward," she persists.

"Tell me simpler words, and I will do my best to echo," I say, feeling very foolish now. The men are hearing this.

My eyes want to drift away and not see into her soul, but I dare not shift my gaze away. She may strike me again.

"If you cannot figure out how to say three simple words to me to make amends, then I do not know how you can lead these men in future battles in good conscience." She blinks hard then closes her eyes and tilts her head back with a thunderous growl of exasperation with me.

I swallow.

"Are words that important? Actions are the stuff of gods," I reply.

Her head sharply falls, and then she looks up at me with a look that says all in her soul.

"I cannot look at you. Don't you dare try to sleep in my bed tonight. Be with your men, your dogs, or the mice in the kitchens for all I care. If I see you, I will practice my new skills with the dagger," she says, and she unsheathes my blade and tucks it down the front of her bodice, shocking me into being dumbfounded. "Do not even think on touching me at all!"

She tromps off, and my eyes follow after her.

Now what?

_Rosalie. Fix that first, and then the rest will follow._

Only . . . Isabella is sure to tell others I am a calloused husband with no feeling.

I dismiss the men in a perfunctory haze. They mill about as they collect their mock weapons, and a few of my more trusted esquires, stockpile the real ones to be brought into the castle.

My four hundred-plus men ready to end their session and return to the innards of the castle for food and shelter.

And I am empty.

It is my duty to make sure everything is running smoothly and needs are met.

I provide the physical necessities, but I cannot for the blood in my veins, supply my close friend's wife with a word of comfort.

I lack the capacity.

When she needed me at the start, I ran out.

I grabbed her husband gruffly and humiliated him in the process.

Then when my wife reached out for me because they needed me, I snapped at her soft feathers and meant to clip her wings and wound her.

On the way inside the castle, I pause in the corridor.

Tonight Rosalie shall rest easy.

She will take my bed, and neither Isabella or I will sleep there.

We can find other accommodations.

Rosalie is a treasured woman whom we cannot do without.

I will make this right.


	50. Chapter 50

**Chapter 50: Revelations**

Isabella did not embellish the scene she left behind her when she found me on the field.

Rosalie lies in a heap, on sheets that were once light in color, but now are crimson.

She weeps. This bold blonde woman is in tatters.

I break inside.

"Your Grace . . . God punished me," Rosalie says, looking to me for guidance when I step in her bedchamber.

Emmett's eyes are red, his cheeks stained with water that pours forth from him. "My baby is gone," he laments.

"I . . . I do not know what to say," I stammer.

I shift from foot to foot.

"Say that God will grant us a reprieve and we can have another child later if we repent of our sins," Emmett begs.

"I have not the power, Emmett. You know this. I am not God's mouthpiece, merely a vessel he uses to punish wicked tyrants like Henry," I say.

Rosalie howls with a fresh bout of tears. "I will be barren, I know it, aye!" she exclaims.

"No, that's not what I—" I clutch at the back of my neck.

"She is in pain. Is there nothing we can do?" Emmett asks me.

"Isabella knows some herbs that might help," I offer.

"She is gone. We know not where she traveled to. She said she would get you, but then failed to come back," Rosalie says.

"Yes, yes, she did come to me, but I was . . . trying to get the . . . T'is of no importance now. Tonight you both sleep in my bedchamber. The bed is comfortable, there is an ample amount of room to stretch out and there is good air flow," I say.

"Your _Majesty_?" Rosalie is taken aback by my generous offer. "But I . . . _bleed_."

"I care not. Rest in my bed. I will carry you myself," I say, and I rush over to her, scoop her up before she can disagree.

"I will . . . try to wash first," she says, blowing hair out of her face.

She stares down at her shift that is covered in streaks of blood.

I've carried men, maimed and much gorier than this, so it does not bother me.

"I . . . Henry would never do this," Rosalie says.

"Henry is a dog in heat with the manners of a pig," I blurt. "I am a knight, and I care about my friends and family. I care about you, Rosalie." I nod at her.

She smiles, and curls her head into my chest with her arms clasped behind my head. Her feeble fingers are barely able to hold on.

"Isabella will not mind?" Emmett asks, trailing behind us.

"If she does, I will deal with her. I have final say where people sleep at night," I say, trembling inside. My wife might not like this. In fact, if she be in the bedchamber right now, she might take my head off while I am helpless with Rosalie in my arms.

Emmett opens the door when we arrive at my door, and she is there.

She looks to have been crying as bad as the sorrowed couple I accompany.

"What . . . _Oh_ . . ." Isabella says softly, then realizes what I intend to do.

"Bathing for her?" I ask my wife with shaky limbs and voice, my eyes soft pools of green, begging for help and forgiveness.

"Yes, of course . . ." She bustles around the room. It actually appears Isabella was just about to bathe herself with warm water in a basin and soft cloths nearby. "Rosalie, would you like me to help you, or do you only want Emmett present for this?"

My heart swells at the tenderness of my wife, and the care with which she places her words. I wish I knew how to do that.

"If you both would help me, then it would be faster. I am weak, and long to be in bed," Rosalie mewls.

I order Emmett to pull a chair over to the washing area, and I set his wife down in it.

She sighs when her back settles in.

"Tuck her hair up, Edward?" Isabella asks as she prepares her work station.

"I know not how to do such things," I balk.

"Edward!" she snaps. "Figure it out. You command legions of fighting men. It's _hair_. Pin it _up_."

I exhale with a gruff scraping sound at the back of my throat and find a few combs nearby I assume are my wife's.

How does one do this? What if I pull her hair and harm her?

She is already in pain, and I do not wish to add to it.

I suck in a tight breath, and then gingerly gather her hair together, twist it a little and drag it upward.

It looks okay I suppose, so I tuck the combs in here and there.

There is no reproof by either women or even Emmett, so I sneak out before they ask me to undress her. I _cannot_ do that.

.

.

.

I wait in the hall like a rebuked dog, awaiting the master's call.

What else can I do?

It would probably behoove me to find a sleeping arrangement for Isabella and myself tonight, but I cannot face the truth of her turning me away.

Denial is a much nicer place to dwell.

After what feels like an eternity, the door cracks open and Isabella steps out.

"Is she okay? Are you . . . is she in bed now?" I ask.

"Aye, she is resting and cleaned. I came out to find you. She wants to say one more word to you alone before she slumbers," she says.

It does not escape my notice my wife refuses to look me in the eye.

"Do you hate me?" I ask.

"You have other things to manage right now," she says, and leaves me standing in the hallway.

Yes, I am a dog.

She kicks me, and I take I barked and snapped at her, so this is my period of training.

The honeymooning period is disintegrated, and now she sees in the most illuminating of the light of day, the mongrel she married.

I do not deserve this fine woman.

With shame weighing heavy on my chest like an anvil, I skulk into the room.

Emmett sees me and immediately leaves our presence.

It is awkward being along with any woman other than my wife in my bedchamber. I grip my hands at the sides of my breeches and keep my gaze down.

How does Henry do this?

It's repugnant, and _this_ is an innocent encounter.

"Sire, I want to thank you for what you did for me today and all tonight," Rosalie says.

"'Tis nothing. Think not on it," I say, shaking my head.

"I shall think on it for many moons. Your opinion matters to me. I never cared much what King Henry said or did, but you . . . there's a light you lead us by, and I care to be around it and in your flock."

"Is that all? May I go now so you can rest?" I ask, feeling the definite urge to flee.

"No, my lord, that is not all. You . . . I can see I meddled somehow with your marriage, and I regret it greatly. But you know, your wife in the state she is in, will not always be reasonable—"

"State? You mean her permanent drive to be stubborn and her forcing herself to be a soldier?" I smile.

"Sire? You don't . . . oh my word! But I should have a needle to sew my mouth shut!" she cries.

"What do you mean?" I ask, daring to look up at her, propped up in my bed.

She closes her eyes like she is tortured. "Your wife. She has no courses. How did you not notice? She is with child," she informs me.

"I think I would know . . . if . . . she . . . _Oh_ . . ." My head pounds suddenly like Knicklom's heavy hooves are galloping through my mind.

She's been vomiting.

Always feeling unwell in the morning.

The moodiness.

The . . . quick responses to physical pleasure when I touch her.

Oh. My. Gracious. Lord.

I have an heir!

Without trying really, and without care, I have an heir!

"Praise be to God!" I exclaim.

Rosalie jumps and yelps at the scare I give her. I step toward her, looking in her eyes and resting my palms on the bed next to her.

"If you tell her I told you, I will poison you in your sleep," she says, and then smiles while patting my hand in a patronizing way.

"I have to say _something _to my wife." I beam at the bearer of this good news.

"Tell her Emmett told you. He'll love that. He was one of the last ones to find out I was with his child, the silly man. It will serve him right to take the brunt of this," she says, chuckling.

"I am a fool." I duck my head and dart my tongue of my bottom lip as I recall all the signs of my wife carrying our seeds inside her.

"Most men in love fall in that lot, but it is well with you. Love is good for you," she says.

I give her a simple kiss on the cheek, smile upon her and leave to find my wife who is . . .

And I hurt _her_. Isabella was unable to look on me.

She saw how uncaring I was about Rosalie miscarrying.

Now I understand why she was so affronted and slapped me.

I deserved it.

Good for my wife. I pray she does that to me once more if I ever I do something this asinine again.

I am sorry.

I _am_.

Now to make my lips wrap around those words and share them with my little bird.

**A/N:**

**No history to give here, just wanted to thank you all for your wonderful reviews. I wish I had more time so I could answer them all, but I read each one. They touch me deeply...**

**Scarlett**


	51. Chapter 51

**Chapter 51: The Lion's Share**

I raid the whole damn castle looking for her, but she's gone into her hiding hole somewhere. Only this time I do not know where the fissure is she has taken to.

And will she even allow me to share it with her if I do find her?

My stomach snarls at me.

I am ravenously hungry.

There was no lunch, and I missed supper.

Did I even eat dinner? I was worrying over Isabella as she was vomiting in the chamber pot, and then I carried it away and emptied it for her.

Where is she?

I slam the chair that's before me as I stew in my anger while standing in the middle of the banquet hall.

Four hundred men fed, but me? No.

I perish with hunger.

The kitchen smells good.

I go in search of food, and low . . . Isabella is at the fire, baking bread.

She is perched on a maid's stool, watching it cook.

"Isabella . . . ?" I lilt.

"Go away," she says, voice textured and gritty.

"If you tell me first you are okay, then I will leave," I say.

"I am not," she says. Her head remains bent as she studies the baking bread.

"Do you need drink? Are you thirsty?" I ask, hoping I can do something right by her.

"You needn't trouble yourself. I can get it myself. I can _manage_. I always _do_. I don't need your help," she says.

Her words lacerate my heart, make it twist and gush blood.

"I'm . . . I am sorry, wife. I am a brute. My mother used to tell me this all the time, but I did not listen. I didn't care to. And now you suffer because of it." I sidle up to her, and brush her hair over her shoulder, my fingers quivering as I lightly brush over her pale flesh there.

She is wooden and completely unresponsive.

"You apologize not because you want to, but because I force you to," she says softly, her voice distant and her gaze unseeing, directed at the fire.

"No, no, little bird. I didn't see before, but I do now. I hurt you, and I hate myself for it. I am dying inside over it. I couldn't be further in the depths of bitterness." I throw myself at her by kneeling down before her.

"Sackcloth and ashes are not required, Edward," she says, her voice flatter than her eyes, still looking at the flames before her, rather than me.

"Then what is?" I ask, my head bowed in worship of her. "I want to do better. I want to do right by you and our . . ." I choke up ". . . sweet little baby." My entire insides crash about, worse than any knight being unhorsed and crushed by the metal they wear.

She gasps, and stands swiftly, the stool beneath her flying back and clattering against the work tables.

"She told you!" she accuses.

"Aye, but I should have known on my own. Can you ever forgive me? I was cruel, and you needed me. I know it is not in your nature to want help, but I want you to want my help so desperately. I want to be the _man_ to you—take care of you, provide for you and our child." I stand up and move closer to her.

She wraps her arms around her belly protectively.

"I . . . I do not want you to be around me right now," she says bitterly.

"Wife. I do not like forcing you to do anything, but I am not going to leave you alone. Not anymore. You may not want to need me, but I . . . I don't know, Isabella. All I know is I love you!" I cry.

Like an overbearing foolish nagging old woman—I cry.

I reach for her, my palms extended.

Her compassions takes over, and she comes to me.

"Do you love me? Truly? A common woman who never listens?" she asks.

"Yes. All of you. Every bit. I am unworthy of you and your gentle soul, but I endeavor to be, though I continuously fall short."

She looks up at me whilst keeping her cheek pasted to my chest. "You speak nonsense too often, my husband." Her sweet little giggle is like a lark singing sweetly around us.

I kiss her. Because she is sublime, and I have to reconnect.

"Where do we sleep tonight? Here by the hearth in the kitchen so the help can find us in the morn?" I tease.

"That would hurt my creaky bones something terrible." She pauses, ponders. "I have already cleaned up Emmett and Rosalie's chambers. We can take their room."

"Smart." I nod and kiss her again.

"But first I eat."

"Hear, hear," I agree. "And, Isabella?" She looks at me. "I am sorry I hurt your feelings."

We wrap our arms around each other, share a few tender words while we wait for our bread to finish. And the food no longer matters, because I have her, and she forgives so easily. I will love her with everything I am, forevermore.


	52. Chapter 52

**Chapter 52: Flames in the Night**

"_Ahhhhhh_! No! No!" Rosalie's shrill voice fills the castle corridors.

I startle awake; Isabella also does, at my side.

"Is she . . . dying?" she asks, swallowing.

"I'll go to her. Stay here," I say.

Of course, Isabella disobeys and gets out of bed.

She is naked, and I do not like to see her put clothes on.

I hope she feels the same watching me pull some clothes on too.

"No! Don't! . . . Ahhhhhh! I'll _kill_ you!" Emmett's voice shrieks.

My blood turns to ice, and suddenly I am lunging for my longsword. Isabella grabs my dagger, and we race out into the halls, making our way to our chambers.

Isabella grabs a torch from the wall to light the way.

The door is locked, so I slam into it, breaking it open.

I hurl myself in the room, with Isabella at my heels.

The illumination from the torch reveals a horrific scene.

Victoria stands over the bed growling; Emmett is holding his wife to him with a plancon mace firmly embedded in her chest, the longest, sharpest tip, plunged in the deepest.

Blood is sprayed everywhere.

Victoria has a sword pointed at Emmett.

She is far enough away I can get to her before she strikes a killing blow on him.

"You were supposed to be in this bed!" Victoria howls at me.

I lunge at her, and am able to block her thrust at Emmett's neck.

She parries as best she can, and our swords clank, ringing loudly.

Clatters sound in the corridors.

Help is coming.

Victoria suddenly flings her sword at Isabella to impale her.

My wife has lightning reflexes and knocks it out of the way with her dagger.

While I am watching Isabella block it, Victoria jumps onto the bed and jumps up to a window. Her hands move aside the tapestry then she slips through, smooth as water and is gone.

I get two steps toward the door to hunt her down when Isabella stops me.

"Stay . . . you must," she says, pointing at Rosalie who is gasping for breath.

"No, no, _noooooo_!" Emmett cries, rocking his wife back and forth.

"I . . . l-lllove you," Rosalie tells him.

He wails, fat tears wetting her face as he kisses her over and over again.

"Don't go, wife. We are together. We left. We ran. You cannot _leave_ me!" he pleads.

Rosalie fails to answer. She can barely breathe.

Isabella drops onto the end of the bed, strokes her friend's leg and cries.

I am impotent to stop this suffering from happening.

Soldiers pour into my room, and I turn and bark orders at them to find the wicked woman with flaming hair.

"Edward . . . come," Isabella says through her tears.

I join at her side, put my arms around her and we mourn Rosalie as she passes into the next life.

It is my fault. I did not promise her she would have more babies.

I gave her our room.

They were vulnerable because of me.

I will exact justice on Victoria's flesh, and Henry's too.

He's the real reason we are here.

I hate them both.

They shall die. Hell will have room for two more demons.

**A/N:**

**Here's a pic of a plancon mace. This was Victoria's choice of weapon. Pretty gnarly, huh? (remove spaces) **

** www . Castlesandmanorhouses . **

**Imagine that thing being plunged into your chest while you were asleep in bed. Gruesome!**

**Scarlett**


	53. Chapter 53

**Chapter 53: Preparations**

Recompense is my new name.

Emmett helps to continue to train the men, his wife freshly in the grave I dug for her.

Isabella is hell-bent on training, no matter how much I yell, throw a fit like a petulant child and beg for her to stop.

Is there a way to stop her, short of death?

I haven't found it if there is.

It makes me testy and short with the men, but not with her.

Now I am aware of her condition, I speak nothing but softness to her.

Well, almost.

I cannot hold back when she picks up heavy weapons.

If she loses our baby I will be beside myself. She shared her sperm with mine to create life, and she should take care to nourish it to full health.

As I am thinking on these weighty matters, I look up to see my wife riding Knicklom at a brisk pace and shooting a crossbow at a target put out for the men with hay bales.

She hits it dead center, and though I am amazed and impressed beyond words, I am equally furious with her.

What is the meaning of endangering our baby like this?

Riding a horse like a man surely will dislodge our seed in her belly.

"Get down now!" I screech at her.

She throws the crossbow at Emmett. He picks it out of the air with ease, and then she circles me, smug as hell.

"Why? I am an accomplished rider, am I not? Did you witness what I just did?" She is aglow and apparently lethal.

I am uncertain if I should smack some sense into her, tie her down for her own good, or have my wicked way with her because she is beyond mesmerizing and sensual in this very moment. Her chest looks large and plentiful today.

"You will harm yourself and my baby," I say.

"Pisser of a rumor," she says, making light of it.

"I said come down! We have discussed this. No riding like a man while pregnant. You are showing now for God's sake! It's not . . ."

"_Dignified_? If you say that word, I will have my horse rear up and bludgeon you with his hooves," she threatens.

"I was going to say 'tis not safe. Please, love," I soften my tone, "you worry me to no end. I want you at my side, and with two feet on the ground."

She hops down very lively, and I cringe at the way she throws herself around with no regard to herself or the child within.

To distract her, I kiss her.

She melts into me, and with my lips firmly attached to hers, I walk her back inside the castle and find something to keep her occupied. Something that will keep her safe.

.

.

.

I sent out spies, and find that Victoria has denounced the Catholic faith, and is one of Anne Boleyn's handmaids now.

Victoria has the ear of the king, along with his bed, and informs him of my whereabouts.

I contemplate moving us to my other lands in Scotland, but now that Isabella is a few months along, I do not wish to disturb her pregnancy. Mothers have lost babies over less vexing things than this.

Contact has been made with my uncle, King James of Scotland, to request an alliance and military help, but no answer has come.

That was two weeks ago.

Our numbers have grown on their own as Henry's people grow rankled over their Defender of the Faith making his own religion so he can put aside his wife of over two decades.

He sickens me so much I want to vomit each morning like my wife used to do before her stomach rounded.

Henry has stripped me of my English titles, taken Castle Leeds and supplanted me with a Duke from the south.

I receive no further monies from those lands, nor from Masen Manor. He does me great insult by taking those lands back and handing them to another.

Our treasury is small, and my army is now at five hundred; roughly half of Henry's.

Dissenters steadily pour in; most of them Catholics, fearing their king is a heretic.

That is the label Isabella and myself have been branded with by Henry.

It gnaws away at me.

I may not follow all of rules, and I do not have a terrific accord with my maker since I never stopped making love to my pregnant wife like I was supposed to, but I am no heretic.

My prayers ascend to heaven like any other man, and I beg the Lord nightly that he will save the country from Henry and his wrath.

**A/N:**

**I freaking love this man. He gets all incensed his wife is riding a horse and wielding weapons, when in his time period, the most perilous thing a woman could do was have intercourse during the first 6 months of the pregnancy. So funny! *wipes away laughter tears***

**Poor Edward is reduced to almost being a peasant with his lack of titles and lands in the choice spots of England. Oh dear… What ever shall he do?**

**Scarlett**


	54. Chapter 54

**Chapter 54: Lying-In**

I have tried for the last two months to talk to my wife about preparing for her lying-in period.

It is time she prepare. Her belly is very fully, so beautiful and ripe with my child, and customs dictate she do this.

Isabella not only refuses, but now she wears my clothes as she continues to ride Knicklom.

She gets very sore from riding, and I hate that she disobeys me. It puts a boulder in my throat and spikes in my gut.

That is not the worse of it.

At night, I lay awake, trying desperately to not touch her in intimate fashions, but she sleeps naked and wakes often. When she rouses, she touches me, enticing me to do wicked things to her. For months I should've been able to forbear on this type of activity, but she is so tempting to my manly flesh. Now it is difficult to stop, especially when she finds way to accommodate for her belly.

It is not right.

This is why I push her lying-in. She must separate herself from her beast of a husband to protect herself. I will not be the cause of our child being in danger of hellfire and even possible death.

Last night she cried when I refused to bring her body the release it needed.

Today she is in a foul mood, and even the older soldiers steer clear of her.

All except Emmett. He hovered around her all during breakfast and doted on her.

If I did not know better, I would think this was more than simple adoration as her subject.

I shake these restless thoughts away.

While my men begin their day in the castle, I step outside to get some fresh air and prepare for our training.

'Tis a chilly spring day. I pull my cloak tight around me as I walk the field and determine what kind of rigorous training I will put them all through in the next few hours.

My men start to file outside, and when I have them put into ranks, ready for separation of formations, I see my wife.

This is not to be done!

She strolls out into the boggy marsh, wearing men's boots that seem to fit her, my shirt, and cloak as usual, but this time she is wearing nothing but my tights over her legs!

"Wife! This is unseemly!" I yell as loud as my lungs will allow. It burns as it leaves my throat, but I ignore the pain.

I march straight over to her, humiliated beyond belief.

But before I can get to her, Emmett has her horsed on Knicklom.

My wife, barely able to move with so much ripeness of belly, is more competent on a horse than the rest of my men.

How is it that she gets better at riding when her joints ache so?

It burns my insides up.

"Get inside now!" I demand. She squares her shoulders, sniffs the air and does not listen, so I turn on Emmett. "What is the meaning of this?"

"The meaning of what? She wants to ride, and she is ready to use the bow and arrow today atop her steed. I see no harm. She is strong, and so is your lad inside her. His kicks were strong on my hand just now," Emmett says proudly, holding his palm up to me as if that is the proof I require.

I snarl and roll my head back. My hands fly in the air. In the next moment, I rip my blade from its sheet and jab it slightly into his neck.

His eyes go wide, and he chokes on his breath.

"Sire . . . I was only following her orders to ride," he says, his voice cracking.

"You dare to touch my wife? Her sacred belly without my say?" My eyes narrow, and I can taste the lust for blood in my throat.

It matters not he is my right hand man and that he still mourns the loss of his wife from over six moons ago. He covets what is mine. That has a hefty price to pay.

"I am sorry, Majesty. I just . . . I miss my wife and the thought of our baby that did not come to fruition haunts me. I thought if I could feel a little kick, maybe—"

"Silence!" I yowl. "You never touch her again, do you hear me?"

"Y-yes, Sire," he says, backing away.

As I put my blade away, he stumbles backward and then runs to the woods where my wife has disappeared to.

He means to tattle, but I pay it no heed.

The men are waiting.

I will deal with her later . . . And take back my wardrobe.

.

.

.

Our practice drills are terrible today. Sloppy, disorganized like their leader: me.

I can barely focus. Isabella has been gone all day, along with Emmett, but my pride will not allow me to search for them.

My tendons stretch tight in my neck and arms as they pulse with hot anger and there are moments when I have visions of them being passionate lovers, but then I remember who they are and know Isabella would never allow that to happen.

She would kill him dead with my dagger, she has adopted as her own, before she lay with him in such a way.

Still . . . Focusing is . . . difficult.

I complain to various individuals about how my wife will not take to her lying-in, and I am beside myself to know what to do for her.

My hands yank at my hair, and my head aches.

This baby will come, and we have no midwife to help her.

Isabella is unconcerned. I am nothing _but_ concern.

At dinner, Isabella finally makes her appearance, but she is a stone wall; a fortress of secrets.

Not a word passes her lips, and Emmett replicates her actions.

He sits across from me, eating voraciously, his fingernails caked in mud even, though he did not run drills with us in the swamp waters today.

Isabella's nails look encrusted with earth as well.

I do not like the looks of it. But I keep quiet.

I have more important battles to wage with her.

Tonight she will start her lying-in with no contesting.

I already have bedded her while pregnant, which is a sin, ignored the rules of abstinence during lent, but this madness stops tonight.

I inhale deeply, and stretch my neck to each side then go back to eating in silence while staring at the wall.

No more sexual relations. No more pleasure.

It is time to think of the baby and our souls.

My loins stir, and God, I think I might die without her touch. My fingers of my right hand twitch on the table, trying to move closer to her.

I care not if she continues to be frantic with lust though. My head turns away from her. If I do not look on her or smell her fragrance, I can be resolute in my decision.

My stomach coils and struggles to keep food inside it.

It is for her own good, and as her sovereign lord I insist this stops.

I glance over at her for a second, and . . . she is so delectable with her lustrous hair, her plump round . . .

My mouth waters, and I swallow to rid myself of the extra moisture. As my lips part, I can taste her on my lips from last night.

Her taste deepens and grows more addictive for me.

No! No more.

I will not look on her that way.

After an exhale, I rest my head on my hand and chew while thinking on practice for the men tomorrow.

Once I have finished with them, I will make sure her lying-in is going well.

Lying-in is a blessing, not a punishment, and it is time she sees it as such.

_That goes for you too! You have not urged her enough because you are too weak and cannot stand the thought of not being able to taste that luscious tanginess of her skin, or exotic smell she has._

I am tortured.

_No! You want this. You want an heir, and there are sacrifices you will gladly make._

But my wife . . . I grow cold without her touch. My fingers tingle and prick at me to reach out and touch . . .

She is so warm, soft and enticing, and she is so responsive to my touch and kisses . . . I but breathe on her and she moans with delight.

I never imagined it could be such bliss to lay with a wife.

My eyes shift over to her without my consent.

Isabella's lips wrap around a succulent piece of meat next to me, and I can barely look at her without salivating and turning into a barbarian.

If I tell her in the privacy of her chambers, I will be unsuccessful.

I know I will.

So, I turn to her and whisper in her ear, "Wife, it is time. Your lying-in cannot wait further. Tonight we sleep separate."

That is when she bursts into tears. Emmett comforts her while my hands bunch in front of me, and I shake my head, wondering how else to handle this.

I am . . . lost.

**A/N:**

**Lying-in was supposed to be a special time for a pregnant woman to prepare for the baby. Though the rest, along with peace and quiet might be nice, being cooped up in a dank, warm, dark room would be more than tedious, it would be maddening! I wouldn't have been able to do that for weeks on end no matter how many of my ladies tended to me and kept me company. It was a tradition for royalty to do this, sometimes starting at the beginning of the 7th month, and after the birth, they would be churched. No sexual contact for 40 days after the baby was born. So, really, for many royal couples, they only had 1 month to have sex during the pregnancy—the sixth month! Crazy!**

**So, from month 2 to month 6, no contact. From month 7 to over a month after the birth, more of this abstinence. See why mistresses abounded? This is craziness! I would've broken the rules all the time.**

**These poor repressed people.**

**Think on that when maybe your love life isn't quite as active as you'd like it to be, or maybe if you'd like to slow it down. Either way, it's probably not as bad as what they went through.**

**Scarlett **


	55. Chapter 55

**Chapter 55: Defiance in the Bedchamber**

I sweep Isabella up in my arms and carry her to our bedchamber. As unwise as this move is, she leaves me with little choice as she is making quite a scene.

Morale plummets when my wife is unhappy. I cannot risk that. Not when she will birth soon, and I need my men to be at the ready to protect her and my child in case Henry gives a surprise attack in our moment of weakness.

I open the door and set her down; her head lulls forward.

"Wife . . . It is time," I tell her, petting her hair and kissing her forehead.

"But there are few women here, and I do not know any of them. I do not wish to leave your side," she says, tear streaked cheeks, breaking my heart.

I hug her to me. "I know, fair heart, but it is for the good of the baby. You forget you are large with child. We break every rule. We have relations every day of the week, and we are not supposed to be together such on Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday's. But we ignore these laws," I say with a chuckle.

"Laws? These are not God's laws. They are the church's way of imposing on us and keeping us under their thumb. You no longer believe these things, and nobody knows but us what we do behind closed doors," she argues.

"Wife, you know that is false. The guards who stand outside our chambers hear the pleasure you derive nightly from my body," I say.

She flushes with a deep hue of crimson and grips my shirt tightly in her little fists.

"They will not mention it. They care too much for my happiness," she says, smiling adoringly at me.

"Can we not have one rule unbroken? Can you not grant me this one reprieve?" I beg.

"No, Edward. I cannot do it. It will break my heart and _that_ will really harm our child. Do you wish that to happen?" she asks, her eyes blaze at me and she almost rips at my shirt.

"N-no . . ."

"And you are king here, not Henry, not the church. You make the rules," she states further.

"That's blasphemy, Isabella. Even I know that. I cannot go against God," I say, worried for her soul now. My breath shallows.

"Rules of men, not God. The church makes them up. There is nothing in the Bible about how a wife must lie still on her back and not derive pleasure from the penetrative act. Yet the church purports that as holy and righteous. Do you wish for me to become a statue while you touch me when I am not pregnant?"

My eyes blink wildly. Where is she getting these strong words from? "Uh . . . no. I want you to enjoy it; nay, I need you to enjoy it, wife. You know this. I encourage you to participate," I say, wiping my face. The guilt and worry bubbles inside of me, threatening to rage forth in a form of a colossal temper tantrum.

"And what of _me_? If we do not pleasure each other at all while I am pregnant, you will be driven to other women, just like Henr—"

"Now, that's enough! I will never do that to you, and I will never be like that monstrous pig!" I shout.

She remains unflinching and stands still, unaffected by my large stature and voice.

"That is how he came to be thus! He tried to hamper his God-given natural urges to have pleasure with his wife," she states as fact.

"He seeks a son," I correct her.

"Before he was obsessed with a male heir, he was acting the brat. His wife is a devout Catholic woman. I have heard she lies dutifully on her back, hands at her sides and does not touch him when he takes her body. There is not a sound, not one whit, and—"

"Isabella, I do not wish to converse of such vile things. These are private matters," I interrupt.

"Exactly! My point precisely. These matters are private between a man and wife; between us only. What happens in our bedchamber is for us to know only. We do what we think best. My conscience is clean in this regard. God did not make women to suffer through sex only to conceive. There is passion in my body meant to be explored and perfected. You have seen this, and I will not deny my right to have it when I need it most. Being with child has increased my desire to mountainous heights to be one with you. If you would stop denying me, I would have you make love to me several times a day," she cries, her hands flying up into my hair and suddenly forcing a deep kiss on me.

My _wife—_how does she _do_ this?

She is a temptress beyond measure.

"Is it not wicked?" I ask, dazed by the power of her kiss and barely able to think or breathe. It feels too good to have her thrust herself upon me that way. My chest burns for more encounters like this.

"It is most precious and delightsome. And all good things come of God. He blesses our unions, darling husband. 'Tis good in the sight of God that you would bed me with our baby inside me. Do not remove me from our bed. I cannot bear it. It will break me until I am nothing but a bitter woman, scorned from love," she says, her eyes misted over with tears. She flicks her tongue over her plump lower lip, and that is when I lose control, and take her to my bed.

She smiles and strokes me all over as I come undone; _multiple_ times that night. My wife is more than satisfied. She is glowing at my side, and I am not sorry for it.

.

.

.

Over the next two weeks, the castles is transformed.

Women and children pour into the castle. My soldiers have come to our aid. They heard my plight, and Isabella has many midwives now wishing to attend to her. There is disagreement about her refusal to have any form of lying-in, but they manage to stay in my wife's good humours.

The castle is filled past capacity, and we are our own village in the castle walls.

My sparsely furnished estate has blossomed into a beautiful place to live. The walls are adorned with more tapestries and new sconces of expert craftsmanship. The rustic chairs of coarse wood are gone and replaced with cushions and comfortable places to sit, where we can play cards, talk, and pass the hours away with music and good company.

I am happier than I have ever been, and the rosy hue on my wife's cheeks and carefree demeanor, serve to boon us all up.

She is nearing the time to birth our glorious son.

I can feel his gender in my bones. My heart springs at the thought of beholding him.

King Henry will be punished with no male heir, and I shall be blessed with several.

I listen to my wife—and she is most pure a vessel. If she tells me God's spirit speaks to her on how to be a wife and mother, then I listen.

And when I hurt her feelings by being too blunt or gruff with my stubborn opinions, I apologize. She has taught me how to do it, and I practice often, because I still tend to be a beast when I am not careful about my words I share with her.

I rub my chest as I think of how I had to apologize more than once yesterday when I told her the new drapes in our bedchamber looked awful.

It is hard to admit defeat ever, and saying I am sorry about kills me every time but the result of having an exultant wife is worth it.

I glance over at my wife preparing to lower herself from Knicklom's back, and I marvel much at her strength. Her groans as she slides off with Emmett and my help, alarm me, until she smiles at me like it is all to be expected. Once on the ground, she takes my hand and settles it on her belly, so I give it a little rub until she sighs and kisses my cheek.

I smile back.

She walks away to greet the men and see how they fare this fine morning. They all smile and speak with kindness and patience toward her. No one pays any heed to her men's attire she dons.

Several of the soldiers kiss her ring. She waves them off and says she is nothing more than a common woman with a good bout of luck.

One of them kneels before her.

I saunter over to her to admire her closer when she leans over to bid the man arise and then she suddenly doubles over, yelping in pain as she grasps at her womb.

"Wife! Do you have pains?" I bleat, skidding to a halt at her side.

The mud on my boots squishes in a disgusting manner, but I ignore it.

"Only every moment of every day," she grits through her teeth, clutching her stomach tightly.

"Time to get inside," I say.

"No. I have a few weeks left until the baby arrives" she argues, but her breaths are short pants, and I can see the struggle she battles to remain erect.

"A small nap, please?"

"Will you lie with me?" she pleads, her eyes wild and frightened.

"I will."

"And sing to me?" she adds.

"Anything for my little bird," I say, kissing the top of her head and escorting her inside.

Emmett takes over for the rest of the day as I hold my wife in bed and stroke her hair, her shoulders, her belly, while she slumbers.

I hum to keep her deep in sleep.

When she is too uncomfortable at night to sleep, my singing and humming seems to help settle her. My bird needs music to keep her in the nest.

**A/N:**

**Oh, those damn Braxton Hicks. I had 3 weeks worth with my second pregnancy. It was awful, but then I had a crazy short, out of control, intense labor and birth. That kid was in a rush to get out! Maybe Isabella's is too? Or maybe it's all that horseback riding? I know; it sounds horrendously uncomfortable to me as well, but doctors say whatever a woman's used to doing regularly is usually fine during the pregnancy. I've even seen women pregnant with twins that are runners, jogging up until they give birth. Had a friend that was huge with twins, shoveling out her horse's stall and moving the refuse around in large wheel barrows up until she had them. Didn't cause her any problems except a sore lower back she had to stretch and have massaged later that day.**

**With this Isabella's case, it's the sex. It's been proven there's prostaglandins in semen that ripen the cervix, making it soft and pliable, and brings on contractions. Since she's getting lots of it, let's assume that's what this is all about. It's nothing but an old wive's tale that jostling a woman around a ton will bring on labor. Rarely, if ever, works, unless she's already ready to go into labor, and in that case, it was gonna happen anyway, so it's more of a coincidence.**

**Today you got a biology lesson in place of a history lesson. What can I say? *shrugs* Didn't have much history to add on this chapter, and him rubbing her belly, makes me all swoony and melty. Mmm… Gruff/Daddyward is hot! Can you blame her for saying, "Screw the sex rules! I need it!" I don't blame her at all!**

**Scarlett**


	56. Chapter 56

**Chapter 56: When Time is of Significance**

Isabella bolts upright, and then profusely vomits over the side of the bed.

I do not know how I managed it, but I had the chamber pot there to catch it all.

She groans at the smell.

"I am not well," she says.

"That is abundantly clear," I say with a humorous chuckle.

"My insides roil," she says, pushing her hair out of her face. It is stuck to her in places from her sweating at night while she rests.

"Let me get this chamber pot away, and get a new one in place," I offer.

"Will you bring me a biscuit back. And some carrots? And maybe an apple. Oh and some spiced cider might be nice," she says, her eyes bright.

"I can see your appetite is unaffected," I tease.

"Maybe it will settle my stomach," she says. She all but collapses on her side into the mattress, exhausted, but still with the trace of a grin.

I first kiss her silky shoulder, then tuck my shirt sleeve up over it for her before I depart.

Even with her belly hanging out the bottom, she is still very intoxicating.

"So beautiful," I breathe.

"That's you, my lord," she argues.

"Never. Always you, my queen. You are the one the men cannot get enough attention from. They all know a fair beauty with integrity when they see one." I rub noses with her, stroke her belly for but a moment and away with the soiled pot.

When I return with a new one, and sundry foods for her, I find her on the ground on all fours, whimpering.

"Wife! Anon, is the baby coming?" I shove the items aside and land at her side on the hard floor.

She merely nods and moves about restlessly like a wild animal.

"The babe is early," she squeaks, her eyes black with fear.

"The babe is strong. He will survive. Let me get the midwife you have chosen," I say.

"No! Don't leave me!" she wails.

She grips my thighs and rests her head on them while she waggles her rearend around in the air behind her.

She moans as a rush of child-birthing pain hits her.

"Fair heart, we need help," I croak.

"Get the straw put in place. It's over in the corner," she points behind her, "and grab the binders and linens and have them ready." She cringes in pain, and I instinctively kiss her and rub her lower belly.

Her shoulders visibly relax when I do this.

I am taken aback by it.

"Did you bring ale?" she blurts suddenly.

"Uh . . . yes, for me," I say sheepishly.

"Give me some," she demands.

"But, wife!" I cry in shock.

"I have pains, and need relief," she says, her voice sharp.

I slide her off my lap, and run to get it, but on my return a large portion of the contents slosh out of the goblet and coat my hands.

I hand her the drink and wipe my hands clean on the linens as I place them in a more convenient spot.

Somehow between rushes, she has spread out the straw by the hearth while I stroke the fire so it is warm for the baby.

"Oh! Hold me, Edward!" she murmurs when another rush doubles her over.

I drop to my knees before her and hold her to me, caressing her hair and back.

"I . . . it's . . . it is a hard one," she says meekly.

When she is in the heaviest part of the pains, she suddenly tears my shirt off her she was wearing.

My eyes go wide at the sight of my wife's bare body before me.

Is this allowed? Is she supposed to be at least in her underclothes?

"Do you want your shift?" I ask.

"No!" she snaps. "The clothes bother me."

I chuckle. Of course my wife will birth like a free naked bird.

Another rush hits her and she yelps, then hides her head in my chest.

"I can hum for you," I offer.

She nods her head minutely, so I start to hum her favorite tune; one I created for her specifically.

It's our baby's lullaby.

I stroke her back, and she shocks me a few moments later when she kisses me passionately, but slowly, and places my hands on intimate parts of her body.

"Isabella . . . I cannot do that," I say, withdrawing my hands.

"_Please_," her luminous tear filled eyes implore me, "your touch counteracts the pains. It will help to bring the baby forth."

"How do you know this?" I ask, my eyes narrowing.

"I feel it inside. Love is what created this baby, and it is what will bring this baby hither," she reasons.

I comply—against my better judgment—I touch intimate places on her body and try to help her bear the uncomfortableness of labor.

Her shoulders rise and fall as she breathes deeply, and my heart warms at how her body responds.

It seems to help, so I keep a steady rhythm of attempting to pleasure her. When I think she is close to release her seeds, she suddenly mewls, "Ohhhhh, _that's_ better."

_Pop!_

My eyes follow her gaze between her legs. Warm clear fluid gushes out of her.

"What is that?" I cry, my voice sharper than my dagger.

Is this supposed to happen?

"The birth waters. It means the baby arrives soon," she says, her eyes soft and delighted.

They stay that way until she is barraged with rush after rush, and is barely able to get a breath.

I massage her back, stroke her belly, kiss her head and whisper words of encouragement even though inside I quiver with ice inside my limbs.

We need help!

"Darling wife, we cannot do this alone. I will fetch the midwife," I say firmly.

"Noooooo!" she grunts, and then I see her stomach bulging tight and bearing down.

Oh no! She is pushing?

My wife is bringing forth our baby and we are alone.

Will God allow this? Men are forbidden to be at the birth of a babe.

I am about to find out if God will strike me dead for this most atrocious of sins.

And thusly, I will soon find out things that husbands do not see or know.

I should not be here.

"Edward! Hold me," she cries out with a feral grunt.

I wrap my arms around her and pray all will be well, that I do not unwittingly kill my wife or child as I try to help her.

**A/N:**

**Birthing back then was all about the women. No men allowed at all. Priests usually waited in the next room to baptize the infant as soon as possible—at least this happened at times for royalty, but even then, it didn't always occur that way.**

**It was custom to lay fresh straw out before the fire to absorb up all the birthing fluids when labor started. Later, after all was said and done, it was removed, and most likely burned. Can't find actually references to what they actually did to dispose of the straw. Birthing stools were sometimes employed, but in almost every case, the mom was up and about, very active with her labor, and always pushed the baby out in an upright position. It wasn't actually until a French King later insisted on watching his mistresses give birth, that he ordered the midwife put her on her back—a position that has since been repeatedly proven to be the absolute worse position to give birth in, next to be strung up by the feet. So now you know, birthing while lying on one's back was done for a King's convenience as he watched, and later Doctor's adopted it since they liked being able to control things and have a good way to see what was going on as well. There is no medical reason to birth in this position at all. It's all down to custom, history, and doctor's convenience, not the woman's health or well-being. Nice, huh? ;)**

**Gravity is not nice in this position when the uterus is trying to normally push out and then down, when upright; now it's fighting a literal uphill battle with the woman flat on her back, and don't get me started on how that baby's head has to try to navigate around the pubic bone in this position and how it presses on the mom's vena cave, cutting off the baby's oxygen. Nightmare! I for one cannot stay still and lie down when birthing. I only laid on my side with my first one because I was in the hospital with a CNM, and didn't want them to threaten me with drugs since I did it all natural. And, really, I only laid down once transition hit me. Before that, I was roaming the hallways, making them stare at me wide-eyed. That's me. Always the rebel, kind of like this crazy free bird of a Bella I've created. I could totally see myself wearing men's clothes, learning to fight alongside the men and demanding sex night and day. :D Hey, wait—I already do that. Hee hee!**

**So, if Edward stays for her birth, do you think he's gonna hamper the process and muck it up? Or do you think his instincts will be right on?**

**Scarlett**


	57. Chapter 57

**Chapter 57: Knocking Down Barriers**

Isabella sweats and breathes hard while she is on the floor and leans against the frame of the bed. She is in a squatting position with the linens to her side. The straw is under her to absorb the fluids.

I caress her legs as I huddle before her, unsure of what to do.

"You will have to catch the babe," she instructs.

"I . . . _what_?" My voice breaks. This is not seemly!

"You have to," she grits and then pushes hard.

I see the beginnings of curls between her legs that are not her own.

This is . . . My stomach rolls at the thought this will hurt her immensely.

Yet somehow . . . It is exhilarating and wondrous.

"But what if I drop him?" I flex my fingers and try to bring life back in them. They are numb.

"Shuuuuush!" she grunts at the peak of her push.

I press my lips together, and hunch over, feeling helpless.

"Uuuungggh!" she groans and releases a whoosh of breath a moment later.

_Rap, rap, rap . . . _

Somebody is at the door.

I freeze.

What do I do?

I do not want anybody other than the midwife, seeing my wife naked.

Maybe not even her either.

Isabella needs her shift.

I race over to get her one, and when I try to put it on her, she slaps me.

"Get away from me, foolish man!" she hollers.

I cower and shrink away.

"Somebody is at the door," I say timidly.

"Then get it!" she snaps, unconcerned she is fully exposed with the beginnings of a baby's head between her legs.

I slink over to the door, and barely edge it open a crack.

"Sire, we hear noise from within your chambers. Do you . . . are you in need of help for Isabella?" he asks.

My nose pokes through the door. "Yes, we need help, man! She births right now, and I am alone. I do not know what to do!"

"I will fetch the midwife!" he exclaims and runs from my presence.

I shut the door, and Isabella screams for me to get back over to her right away.

She pushes with fierce determination, and I pray the midwife arrives soon.

But our baby has other plans, his head suddenly crowns, and Isabella cries out in pain.

"Fire! My bottom is on fire!" she yells.

I do not know what to do, so I massage lightly around the opening, and she does not tell me to stop.

"Is this . . . all right, wife?" I ask, intimidated by the process taking place before me.

She sighs and her shoulders droop.

Her panting breaths pick up and then she is pushing again, sweating, moaning and then . . .

_Sluuuuurp!_

The baby's head passes out the opening, turns toward me a second later, and I am cradling little ears in my hands.

"He's looking at me, Isabella . . . Our baby's eyes see me!" I declare, choked up with emotions I cannot contain.

She does not hear me, for she pushes again and the body slides the rest of the way out.

Unmanly tears spring to my eyes and coat my cheeks and chin when I see . . .

"A boy! Dear wife, we have a son!" I whimper and try to see him better through my watery vision.

Her eyes go wide, and even though she is completely exhausted, she reaches for him.

I do not wish to give him up, but she needs to touch his silky, hot, wet flesh.

Before passing him to her, I wrap him up in the linens, kiss his moist little head and hug him to me.

He bleats when I do this, and it is the most beautiful music to my ears.

Isabella takes him from me and coos at him, "You are so small and perfect . . ." Her finger is bundled up in his little fist.

I help her into a more comfortable position and sit down next to her to gaze at our son.

She starts to shake with a chill soon after, so I retrieve more linens for her and wrap them loosely around her body.

The door squeaks open and we are met with a distraught midwife, shocked to find our baby in arms.

"Get away from her, Sire! You will give her the birth fever and infect her," she blurts.

"This is my baby, with hands that mirror my own. I created this baby, so I give him nothing I haven't already given him in the womb," I bark.

She drops her stuff, her face pale, and her eyes are so wide now I think they might fall out.

Then I realize she is not looking at me but my wife.

My head whips around to my beautiful lady and what does she think to do _now_?

"No!" I yelp, and back away.

My babe is suckling at her breast.

The queen is feeding her own baby!

"Stop that at once!" the midwife shrieks.

But being Isabella, she ignores us and smiles in a daze of peace and contentment at our baby, latched on and sucking most vigorously.

"Huuuuuuh! Give up now, madame, for my wife listens to no one, king or otherwise," I say, exasperated in defeat yet again.

"I listen to God, and that is all you ever need know to trust me," Isabella says and the matter is laid to rest.

She settles her head on my shoulder and caresses our baby's arm and talks of nothing but how much she loves me and our boy, and how blessed a woman she is.

I nod, but inside, I know I am the most blessed of all. I have found a soul, found love and peace, and now a family to love. God has seen fit to shine on me, and I must find a way to repay him.

**A/N:**

**Queens did not nurse their baby's back then, unless they were Anne Boleyn, and said, "To hell with all of you!" She defied the norm as long as she could, but her job was to get pregnant and have lots of babies, and they knew then, fertility did not return if a woman exclusively nursed a baby. So, they employed a wet-nurse and the queen let her milk dry up. It's crazy how quickly after giving birth or miscarrying, they were pregnant again. It's another reason for so many miscarriages and stillbirths. Doctors have documented that it takes a woman's body no less than 3 years to get back to normal after a pregnancy ends. Also, there should ideally be 3 months before conceiving where the mom eats as healthy as possible, because it winds up being in the uterine lining of blood that feeds the gestate in the first 3 months of that baby's life. It takes 3 months before the placenta takes over, and a woman that has just given birth, is nutritionally depleted. Ever wonder why a mom that has back to back pregnancies might have a lot more morning sickness with subsequent pregnancies than she did with the first one? This is part of the reason why. The hormones are intensified and there's no nutritional backup there to cushion the blow.**

**If you've heard that breastfeeding doesn't work as birth control, it's because modern culture uses things like pacifiers, supplements with bottles and makes their baby's sleep through the night before the child's brain and nervous system is ready to do so. Once a baby goes more than 5 hours without nursing at the breast, it signals to the mother's body this an older child, self-weaning, and therefore tells the woman's body to start ovulating again and become fertile. I went 24 months without almost all 4 of my children without ovulating and not having my period. This is what the body's meant to do. The average in the US for women that nurse this way (it's called Ecological Breastfeeding) is 14 months without their menses and being infertile. In villages in Africa where this is the norm, nursing unrestricted, they go 3 years or more before fertility returns and their children are naturally spaced apart between 2 to 4 years. It's 99.9% effective, more so than the pill (which also can mess with mother's milk supply—I've seen it happen repeatedly). The mom has to be aware of impending signs of fertility returning of course. And all but 7% of women, will not ovulate on their first cycle. It's like a warning signal, saying, "Hey, get ready. Your period's back, this means next time it's for real. Better do something if you don't want another baby." There's a fabulous book that explains this all in greater detail called, **_**Breastfeeding and Natural Childspacing**_ **by Sheila Kippley. This is where I learned all this handy-dandy knowledge about how to use breastfeeding as birth control, and oh yeah, I hated condoms, and hated having my period, so I loved having breastfeeding induced amenorrhea. Here's the link for that book if you want to check it out (remove spaces):**

** www . Amazon Breastfeeding-Natural-Spacing-Sheila-Kippley/dp/1435746546/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1356886846&sr=8-1&keywords=breastfeeding+and+natural+child+spacing**

**Okay, so my IBCLC and LLL training just leaked in, but, hey, we're talking about childbirth and breastfeeding here. Can't keep my knowledge hidden, now can I? My brain might burst if I tried to do that. :D**

**It's also all my years of being a Bradley Instructor, studying in hopes of someday being a lay-midwife, and generally being amazed by how a woman's body works, rearing its head as well. Pregnancy, childbirth and lactation are absolutely fascinating. The body is genius, and it's amazing how it all moves in harmony to create and sustain a new life in the healthiest way possible.**

**BTW, I have more info on my blog about why I think there were so many miscarriages and stillbirths in the Tudor times, and why Henry VIII was plagued with his woman failing to give him a healthy, viable son to be heir (remove spaces): **

** / historic-fics**

**Any guesses on how Henry's going to react when he hears Edward now has a son when that's the King's most ardent desire? Oh, this should be good… (insert my evil laugh here!)**

**Happy Valentine's Day!**

**Scarlett**

**P.s. I promise—no more birthing and lactation talk. It got away from me there, but I'm okay. Didn't hurt myself, I promise. ;P**


	58. Chapter 58

**Chapter 58: At Odds**

Isabella nurses all the day long in bed with our little one nuzzled into her.

Each time he latches on, it hurts her a little, but she smiles in triumph.

"Are you pleased to have a healthy son?" she asks me when I finally settle in next to her.

"I am more than pleased," I purr, kissing her lightly on the lips. "I knew it was a son all along."

"Boasting does not become you," she says with a tinkling laugh.

"It does when I think of Henry's reaction to this news. He'll probably stop at nothing to have you now that he knows you bear sons to kings," I tease.

"That's not funny," she says, shoving me playfully.

"It is to me. He deserves it! And God knows how we have suffered at his hand. It is our due recompense," I say.

"Rest now and stop scheming for one day," she says through a yawn.

"Wife . . . may I ask one thing before we sleep?"

"Anything. You did everything for me today, and I love you eve more for it," she says, beaming.

She is right. I helped to catch the baby, which scared and thrilled me in equal parts measured, and then I dismissed the midwife, since she made Isabella cross. The midwife's ire tired us both, so I called her a tyrant and removed her privily.

That meant I had to clean up the room on my own while Isabella watched, upset she was impotent to help me.

I did not mind the mess.

My son was here, what complaint could I afford?

Even under duress and strain, I would not have mentioned doing a woman servant's work.

Isabella cut the cord herself with her dagger she had cleaned and sharpened only yester night.

She was primal and fierce in that moment, and my heart overflowed with pride and love for her.

I pray she not get the sickbed fever of birth and that she mend quickly.

If she died . . . Well, I shall not survive.

"What did you and Emmett do a few weeks ago the day I yelled at you on the field?" I ask.

She blushes. "Oh . . . _that_. I thought you might ask what to name our son?"

"Well, yes, we must do that too, but I have been trying to puzzle out where you both went that day and why there was mud encrusted in your nails and his as well. You were gone for many hours in the woods." I feel foolish asking this of her right after she has born our son, but it has been eating away at me for days.

"Do you truly wish to know?" She purses her lips and narrows her eyes at me, feigning annoyance.

She is adorable when she is playful like this. I kiss her shoulder and smile.

If she wasn't sore I would tussle with her and make passionate love right now.

Instead, I run the backs of my fingers down her exposed arm that is looped around our baby's back.

"Okay, I will tell. We were digging," she says.

"_Digging_?" my voice escalates, making the baby startle a little. I duck my head and raise my shoulders. "Ooops, sorry."

She smiles.

She always smiles when I apologize, for she knows the difficulty of it for me.

"Yes, digging. There were rumors Henry would attack as soon as I gave birth, so I wanted to be prepared," she says.

"You heard that rumor, did you? And you thought it your responsibility to dig whilst heavy with my heir?" I ask, wiping my face. I did not wish her to worry about matters like that. She should have been free to gestate and build our baby, nothing more.

But no. She wanted to be in the muck and grime, training like the rest of us deplorable creatures. It no whit she felt compelled to ride horse, shoot arrows and wield burdensome swords. She felt unsafe, and worried I would fail to protect her and out little one.

I sigh.

"Aye, and I did not want to be caught unawares. You remember my hiding spot in the orchard?"

I nod. "How could I ever forget? It saved us both."

"Well, Emmett and I dug a few crags like that one, so if Henry ever did infiltrate, or even Victoria again, we could hide. There are several of them so maybe other women and children, or even some of your officers could hide in the forest floor too," she says. Her eyes shift over my face, probably looking for some sign of discord in my countenance.

I exhale hard. "Well . . . damn. Why did I not think of that? You are too brilliant for your own good, wife." I lean into her and kiss her nose.

She smiles, her eyes sparkle and a few happy tears slide down her cheek.

My wife did not cry when our baby emerged, but now she emits tears.

Over this?

"Why do you cry?"

"Because I am so lifted. This is like a happy dream. Me here with you; us living the way we want to. Our love undaunted and free here. It is more than any maid ever has the right to—"

I press my lips to hers to silence them. There is no more need to talk.

We are happy.

_Peace, be still, wife. Be still. Enjoy your moments of bliss._

When I pull away, I whisper, "I will always protect my two little birds." I pet his dark wispy hair and close my eyes.


	59. Chapter 59

**Chapter 59: Battle Cries**

After Isabella sleeps peacefully for a few hours, she wakes and is ravenously hungry.

I demand servants bring her in hoards of food, and I feast with her atop our blankets and pillows.

We get many a shocked stare as we eat on our bed, but we care not.

There are a few visitors, coming to see the babe, but we do not allow them to touch the prince for fear of his constitution not being strong enough yet.

A priest is sent for, since we do not have one residing at the castle.

Our boy must be baptized.

I am in awe of the strength of my wife. Images of her powerful, yet slender thighs, flexing as she birthed our baby, ripples through me.

Is there anything my wife cannot do?

She is Hercules incarnate. She is Aphrodite too. She is the sun, the moon, the stars, and all of the elements combined into a beautiful, unstoppable woman set before me.

I am completely bewitched by her and stare at her the remainder of the afternoon.

When the priest arrives, he baptizes our boy forthwith. We decide to name our lad Edward Masen the III.

When we are questioned about the birth by the father, he is affronted by our lack of respect for rituals and appalled I was there to not only witness, but participate in my son coming forth from the womb.

He leaves in a huff, and when the rumors are heard about why he was thus left, horrified, a few families follow suit.

They call us heretics and flee from us as if we could contaminate them with our wickedness.

I do not care if they go.

My wife is happy.

My baby is healthy.

I bask in her glowing goodness.

We settle down for a late afternoon nap; instruct the guards at the door to keep it quiet in the corridors and to send away any visitors who stop by.

Our next week passes by in a blur.

Edward the III is not happy unless he is gobbling his mother's milk, and I have disjointed sleep since he is not aware that night time is the proper time to sleep.

If I thought I might sleep better without my wife, I would leave to find a bed elsewhere, but the thought of a cold bed without her is unwelcome, so I stay.

It is on the eighth night after his birth while I toss and turn, urging to sleep to take hold of me, that I hear it.

The clear unmistakable sound of many horse hooves and soldier feet, heading towards us.

I jump out of bed and get dressed in a flurry.

When I poke my head in the corridor, my fear is confirmed.

There is a mad dash of soldiers preparing for the onslaught. We are about to be under siege by Henry's forces.

They crept up in the night like a vicious nocturnal creature, hunting for more than sustenance, wanting the pleasure of sheer carnage.

I bark a few clipped orders and return to my wife, somehow sleeping through it all.

My hands itch to spill Henry's blood, but not now. Not when my son is barely breathing and new to this world.

I rouse my wife, and she slowly opens her eyes.

"What is this?" she asks, stifling a yawn.

"We are about to be under attack. Please, do not stall. Wrap the baby in the blankets and go to your hideouts you created in the woods," I say, my shoulders hunched and my legs coiled to spring at any intruders that pass my way.

"No. I stay with you," she says.

I roll my eyes, and slip my boots on.

"There is no time for this," I say, keeping my voice quiet enough the baby will not wake.

Of course on the night I need her to flee, Edward the III decides to sleep during the evening.

"We cannot part. I need you!" she cries.

"This is our home; our people. I must help defend them," I argue.

"Order an evacuation. They can all hide in the forests, and we will have the advantage of the flaura and fawna to hide us," she says.

"How do we hide over a thousand people? Half of them women and children? No. They stay in the safety of the castle walls," I say. I reach for my doublet and cape, and secure them in place swiftly.

"If this is the safest place, then why send me into hiding in the forest?" she challenges.

"Good God! How much argument can one little woman have in her?" I roar.

The baby jolts awake, but remains silent. He roots around for the breast, and Isabella, being incapable of not giving what he wants, offers it to him.

"The world is about to crash down. I will not let you die!" I slam my fists on the bed.

She settles back into the mattress, and refuses to budge.

"I go where you go," she says, eyes glaring at me.

I grab her dagger and decide force is my only option.

When the hilt touches my hand, and I think of putting the blade to her gullet, I am seized with racking, anguished cries. My wife's back shakes and her lips tremble as she sobs.

"Isabella . . . please! I cannot survive if you are in harms way," I plead.

I set the dagger down on the pillow where I was resting, not more than ten minutes prior.

She pulls me to her. "Leave this place with me. Do not hesitate. Put Emmett in charge, and he can do what he thinks is best. Our family is most important. We keep it intact," she bargains. "We will see these people again, I swear it. God will protect them if we keep our end of the promise we made with him when we married. For better or for worse," she reminds me.

I smile at her and shake my head in mock exasperation.

"What goes on in that mind of yours is nothing short of baffling," I say, grinning.

"You do not want to know," she says, popping one shoulder up and a crooked smile in place.

"Will you go then if I stay with you?" I ask.

"Aye, my lord."

"If I say ride, will you comply?"

She nods her head vigorously.

"Good." I bestow her with a circumspect kiss.

She snorts a laugh. "Here we are . . . _running_ again."

"I would to God you really did have wings in this instant, then you could take our prince and find a place far away that's safe for you both. But it seems the life of my little bird is to always migrate by horse or by foot," I say.

She smiles, breaks suction on the baby's mouth. When he is handed to me, he cries.

I sing, and he quiets down a little.

Isabella dresses in my clothes, which does not shock me, but then she places a thick skirt over the tights.

"Why the skirt?"

"Extra blankets to keep the baby from being chilled," she says and then drops it down in place.

And we are off, like thieves in the night lurking in shadows, avoiding being discovered. I have never felt more ready to murder a man in my life than I am now. Henry will pay for this!


	60. Chapter 60

**Chapter 60: The Blanket of Darkness**

Isabella allows me to cover her with dirt and debris as she lies in the hole in the ground, with our baby suckling at her breast with a blanket over his entire body.

I debate on where or not to hide too, or if I wish rather to stand guard in front of her.

My wife decides for me.

"Join us now, or I come out from hiding!" she hisses.

"Drag me down to hell, why don't you? Great God!" I kick at the ground.

She laughs quietly, and I maneuver into the hole she has secured for us.

It is pure torture to hear the castle being barraged and attacked.

Cries of pain are echoed in the air, and the smell of burning flesh makes my own skin prick like tiny beasts slice into me.

"They are slaughtered," I whisper to her.

"I know . . . Should we ride, make haste to leave?" she whispers.

"I think that is wise," I agree.

I do not know how long we had been lying in the dirt. An hour? Maybe more?

We know we must leave, but we are too afraid of what we might see, or more importantly, that we might be seen leaving.

To get to the horses, we would have to reveal ourselves and leave the safety of the woods.

We finally emerge like rodents being driven from a burning field, and we scurry to get to our horses.

I have Isabella secured in place. She tucks the back portion of her skirt under her behind to cushion her healing womanly parts. I hand her the baby and she somehow secures him with some linens she brought with her so he is tied to her chest, leaving her hands free to hold a weapon and steer the horse.

She looks primal and fierce—Boadicea has no comparison in skills to my wife. She is a mouse and my wife a lion, not to contend with.

I kiss her thigh and tell her to ride. We will meet two villages north in a dark, discreet, tavern.

She smiles weakly, but obeys.

Instead of mounting my horse like I told her I would do, I march straight to the fray.

Whether I battle or not, is of no import.

I must save as many of these people I can. If that means surrendering, then I do it.

I will bequeath all that I own to my wife, and she will be provided for.

There is solace in knowing if I make sure many of these people are spared, that they will keep her in hiding and protect her and my son.

I stride out into the marshes, bold as anything. Two soldiers immediately recognize and accost me.

I am flung to the ground, and they tie my hands behind my back, yelling for reinforcements.

They know exactly who I am.

"It's Sir Edward, we have him!" one of them cheers.

"King Edward," I correct him, my face full of mud.

His knee pulls upward to his chest, and before he slams his boot into my face, I brave a look at my castle.

It is in tatters, portions engulfed in flames, and on the brink of being leveled, reduced to rubble.

"Surrender! I surrender! Free my people and spare them!" I call to them.

The last thing I see, is a mud covered sole coming toward my head.

And then . . . black. Pure darkness. A place without pain or knowledge.


	61. Chapter 61

**Chapter 61: Room of Writhing**

I come to, in a room that is red. Everything is crimson.

It is akin to being swallowed up by a womb.

The eerie atmosphere releases a chill that runs rampant up my spine, and ends in my teeth chattering, even though it is not cold in the slightest.

On the contrary—it is stifling hot.

"He wakes, darling," Victoria voices says softly in the dim light.

I turn my head.

My body is prostrate on a fluffy bed.

Clearly this is a room of royalty.

A deep throaty chuckle resonates in the room.

I know that laugh.

The bastard!

"So, Edward, you think you can defy me and hide? I have clearly shown you are subject to my whims," Henry says from across the room.

I lift my head and find him in his night clothes.

Is this Victoria's room?

My eyes flit around, taking in as much information as I can.

There is a feminine feel, so I ascertain it is indeed her private chamber.

"When you decide to quit deluding yourself and realize I have bested you repeatedly, and do so again, by saving my people and my wife, then we will talk," I huff.

"You have never bested me," he argues.

"I best you in every way! Put me on the jousting green now and let's end this false play where you parade about, pretending to be a virile young man, instead of an old stodgy pervert, preying on young women who secretly detest you!" I glare at him. "Not one of them loves you, which is why you have no son. You use them, and they use you. You will never know what it means to release your wife's sperm, and have her come undone, shuddering under your body at the same time you have your own release. It is why God saw fit to grant me a son. I love my Isabella with all my heart, and she me."

"I have a son," he says, tilting his chin up.

"Bessie Blount's _bastard_?" I taunt.

He looms over me. "At least I give them a proper lying-in, and then they are purified and churched. You are a heathen, attending to your baby's arrival and having carnal pleasures with her nightly while your baby is inside of her," he sneers.

Were there spies in my ranks? How else could he know this?

My stomach knots, and I release a tight breath.

"Oh yes, I know what filth you have in your bed with your wife. They say she sticks her tongue in your mouth and you encourage it," he says.

"My wife derives pleasure from it, as do I. I do not have to dazzle her with gems and furs to get her into bed and seduce her because I am old, disgusting and decrepit." I snap my jaw shut when I am done insulting him.

He laughs. "Women throw themselves in my view because they _lust_ after me."

I chuckle darkly. "Whores. Even teenage girls maneuver and trample over their friends to position themselves between your thighs because they want favor, status and wealth. It has nothing to do with what they think of your person. I've heard it myself in the orphanage. They think you a poor joke, and they know your predilection for little girls, you abased, foul creature," I say then turn my head away from him.

"Enough!" Victoria screeches. She stands up, approaches me and then backhands me.

My face throbs, but the gratification of saying these things to his face is payment enough for the physical abrasion to my face.

"I best you, Henry," I say, turning my eyes back to him and glaring. "I best you without effort."

"You. Do. Not!" he roars, and that red vein in his temple pulses angrily. "When the sun is up in one hour, I prove it. You do not best me. I am lord of the lance!"

I snicker. "You shall chomp on your words and choke them back down when you eat the dust of the ground, for I shall unhorse you on the first blow."

Henry is silenced, and he wrangles me to my feet. He grips me by the shoulders and shakes me as his spittle sprays in my face while he shouts obscenities at me.

When he is done, he calls for two guards to take me to be suited up in armor.

I do not have my horse or my own metal plating, but it matters not.

Victory will be mine. I swear it with the blood boiling in my body.


	62. Chapter 62

**Chapter 62: Jousting Green**

I straddle one of Henry's destriers. It is a good breed—Spanish.

Though I miss Grayson and Knicklom right now, I do not dwell on those thoughts.

I harbor too much animosity toward this pig wrapped in metal, to tarry on what I do not have . . .

Such as my wife.

Is she safe? And what of my tiny little Edward?

I shake my head a little to stop that line of thinking.

My visor is in place, shielding my face and Henry is on the opposite end of the field, talking to his sycophant mistresses while atop his charger. They each give him favor, and his farce of a queen watches on impassively.

It makes bile rise to the back of my throat, so I spit it on the ground.

When he is done with his spectacle, he gets in place on the other side of the list.

I am handed my lance, and I brace myself.

This is it.

Moment of justice.

He will pay.

His lips will fill with dirt, and he will inhale the dust of the earth and know he is nothing.

The trumpets sound, and I spur his horse on between my armored, heavily-muscled thighs.

Sweat pools in my helmet—the day is far from sweltering, but his armor is so thick, it lets nigh a wisp of air through.

It does not deter me from my target.

As he approaches, I form strategies.

His weight is forward, to accommodate from the girth he has accumulated around his middle as he has grown older.

If I throw him forward, the horse will catch his weight, and he might not tumble off.

If I knock him backward, he might be too heavy and seated too firmly to complete the blow.

His horse is thickly armored. This could work to my advantage. It could mean his legs slip and do not hold around the horse's ribs or flanks.

That is the key.

The horse.

"Aaaaannggh!" Henry howls as he lunges forward with his lance to hit me.

I allow it to make contact, because I go for the dip in muscle behind the horse's front leg.

The beast's leg buckles, and then I ram my lance up as quick as I can and hook it under Henry's chin. All of my force and body weight is behind it, and I even lift my seat off my saddle to see it through.

Henry's head does not fly off, which is most disappointing, but the horse rears up from the pain I inflicted on it.

The king topples off in the process, lands on his back, and the horse falls on top of him, crushing him to the ground.

A sickly high pierced scream rips out of him. "_Aaaaaahhhh_, Offffff!"

The horse rolls.

_Craaaaack! Criiick!_

Bones in his legs are broken, and he is struggling to get the horse off him while he cries out in agony.

Droves of people race after him, and I seize the opportunity to escape.

They will not take their eyes from their damaged king, so I flee.

I run to find my Isabella. I run to find the world I belong in.

**A/N:**

**I claim artistic license here for the sake of the story. Historians say the following: Henry VIII's jousting** **accident occurred at a tournament at Greenwich Palace on 24 January 1536 when 44-year-old Henry, in full armor, was thrown from his horse, itself armored, which then fell on top of him. He was unconscious for 2 hours and was thought at first to have been fatally injured. His leg continued to bother him throughout the rest of his life. Although the leg healed initially, it reopened a few years later and became ulcerated. He was unable to play tennis and resume his usual athletic activities, and thus put on significant weight thereafter.**

**His height was 6' 4", and his weight estimated to be about 180 pounds in his younger years based on his armor. His last set of armor before he passed away, doubled in inches around the waist, his weight thought to be about 320 pounds at death.**

**So there you have it.**

**It's all Edward's doing, and he definitely had a hand in Henry's physically misery.**

**I'm betting your not saddened by this or shedding a tear for that tyrant, lying in sin with Victoria. Or maybe I'm wrong? ;D Who knows?**

**Scarlett**


	63. Chapter 63

**Chapter 63: Forging a Path**

I know not where Isabella might be, but I am determined to find her.

After riding for well over an hour, I stop to rest the horse.

I am not familiar with this beast and unaware of how much it can handle.

If it was Grayson I ride with, I would persevere and push harder, but I do not need this animal to cramp up on me and be unable to move.

I am in a small, quiet village. It was once one of my own. I am in Kent, and it would be nothing to tell them it was their duty to feed and water my horse, and maybe even me, but since I am now an enemy to the crown, I do not think they will choose to help me.

They might even kill me.

So I lurk in the shadows, and find a trough on a farm.

The horse drinks deeply, and I rest in the shade of a tree.

Within minutes I am tired and dreaming of soft lips on mine, long chestnut hair floating on my pillows as I love her.

The beast whinnies, and my eyes snap open.

Was I sleeping?

When I look up, I see what I imagine is my wife riding past in a flurry, heading toward court.

"No! Isabella, _stop_!" I call after her. I jump to my feet and wave my arms around wildly.

Her head cranes over her shoulder, and she abruptly wheels Knicklom around and shoots herself straight for me.

She stops directly in front of me, and I swing her down while she holds the baby tight to her chest.

"My husband!" she cries, out of breath.

"I'm here," I say, touching my lips to her and embracing her so tight, the baby squeaks between us.

She smiles through her kisses, and tells me over and over how much she loves me and heard I was captured by the king's forces.

"You were coming to rescue me?" I ask, my forehead pressed to hers, soaking up her presence.

My arms are loosely draped around her waist now and the lad has quieted.

"Aye."

"I am the knight in shining armor, dear wife," I tease.

She dings the armor on my shoulder with her knuckles.

"You escaped without my help," she observes.

"I did."

"What of Emmett? Did you free him too?" she asks.

"Is he alive? I assumed he perished in the castle when it was ablaze," I say.

"They have him. I was told they mean to rack him," she tells me.

Her eyes slide shut, and salted tears seep out of the corners of her eyes.

"He will be okay," I lie, my gut feeling squeezed by an iron clad fist.

"Nay, my lord, he will not."

I sigh. This is how they knew all of the intimate secrets about what my wife and I do. He told them all.

"We have to go back and save him," she says.

"It is too late. They have already done it. They have already tortured and interrogated him. He is most likely dead," I say. "We are lucky you and the babe escaped from the forest behind our home at all. He was probably going to tell them about your hideout the first moment he could if he hadn't already told them weeks ago. Henry knew all our secrets, and I know this is how."

Her face contorts in unspeakable pain. "No," she whispers. "He is our friend, our trusted . . ."

"I know . . . fair heart, it is outrageous that a good man like him is ended this way." I stroke her hair, and wonder how I can help soothe her. "But Henry has persuasive ways to make enemies into allies. And Emmett was broken man without his Rosalie at his side."

"What do we do now?" Her feeble voice shakes.

"We run again. I have lands in Scotland and—"

"We cannot be royalty anymore. We cannot try to be a king and queen. We won't survive. We need to fall into obscurity. Let us hide as common farmers. I say we ride to France, and live out our lives there."

"I am of noble birth. I cannot stop being noble anymore than you can stop being a perfect, lovely woman."

She smiles like I am a dullard, and kisses the corner of my mouth.

"Please . . . can we just try? Let us watch our baby grow into a strong boy, and then if things change and we are strong enough, we can grow an army." Her hand that is not holding the baby, grips my jaw. Dark brown eyes bore into mine, willing me to listen.

"We can. Aye, let us go," I agree.

"Truly?"

"Truly, wife. I do anything and go anywhere for you," I say. "But you ride with me. I have no more tolerance from being separated with you for even an instant."

She hugs me and jumps for a moment with delight, and I know I have made the correct decision for our family.


	64. Chapter 64

**Chapter 64: Madness**

_June 1533_

I go mad living the life of a simple farmer, but Isabella is the happiest bird ever, singing constantly and springing about with a lightness of foot.

Watching from afar how Henry tears his kingdom to shreds and goes insane, is hard to bear.

Isabella is ripe with child again, and close to her days when she should be in confinement. Of course she will not do it. How could I expect anything less?

Henry's new wife, Anne Boleyn, is also heavy with child. I plan to have another son, just to spite him.

I pray nightly he is given a sickly girl with chalky white pallor and weakness of breath.

The rumor is ,Jane Seymour, the girl I met at the orphanage, is his mistress of choice.

If I wanted to be of service to the king, I would send word to him of this woman's deceptions.

Isabella has told me more of what happened at the orphanage when she was there. It seemed this girl was quite the deceptive whore, doing everything but the penetrative act.

I look out over the field before me and am distracted by my wife, approaching me with a pained expression in place.

"This baby threatens to come early like her brother," she says with a smile.

My wife provokes me by saying it is a girl.

I am trapped by it every time.

"My _son_ will come when he is good and ready," I snap.

She chuckles and runs her hand through my hair. I tip my head back and purr. I love it when she does that.

"Do you think our baby will come before the pig's does?" she asks, referring to Henry.

She rarely refers to him by name now. Ever since she found out he was taking Victoria to his bed, and now Jane . . . well, it is good she is not ever near his manhood with her dagger. I hate to think what kind of damage she would do to him.

"I know not, wife. That does not matter so much as that we have another strapping boy to carry on my family name," I say, puffing my chest up. I drop my head back down and give her a lopsided grin.

"Yes, yes, you have a reputation to uphold, and still hope to be king someday," she says, rolling her eyes while chuckling.

Her patience is all but dissipated as her waist increases in girth daily.

I do not blame her.

We toil on our farm. There are plenty of servants, and I still make royalties off lands I own in Scotland, and Ireland, but still . . . I grow restless with this life.

Isabella turns to one of our servants, returning with the wash.

She slips into fluent French, which I tend to butcher.

In the orphanage there was a little French girl named Renata who was abandoned by her parents while they were vacationing in the English countryside.

She taught my wife her native tongue, and they drove the rest of the children crazy by speaking in code around them.

This was one of the reasons Isabella was not well liked there. Kate and Jane were diametrically opposed to being friendly with Isabella, and they were a constant thorn in her side.

These girls pleasured any man that was advantageous to them.

Both of them from families with good names, but abandoned because they were so rebellious in nature and defiant.

Now Jane's parents fawn over her, and put on airs as a happy, cohesive family. Anything to have a daughter in the king's favor.

Yet another reason Isabella cites why we should stay away from that place.

It is a den of prurient filth.

Brothels are less defiled then Henry's court.

" . . . Messieur Swan . . ." the servant says.

I did not hear the conversation in its entirety—I was trapped in my thoughts.

My head snaps toward them.

They chat about when the baby might come and about me and where I will rightfully be when the baby arrives.

I chose the name Swan to hide our identity. It was on a whim.

When we arrived at this cottage with a stream behind it, I was immediately struck reminiscent of how my little bird swam like a swan in the water to get away from me when I tried to stroke her flesh without her permission.

It seemed fitting.

Now I cringe when I hear it.

Swan? Unmanly and weak sounding.

Why did I not think it through?

Isabella loves it.

The worst is when my son tells people his name is Edward Swan the III.

Oh! That is unsettling to say the least.

My son of five years should have a strong, forbidding name—something that strikes fear and respect in people's hearts.

Nobody cowers from a Swan.

Isabella lets our superstitious servant pat her belly and put an amulet around her neck.

My wife will take it off as soon as the servant is gone. She does not believe in charms for good luck during birth.

She believes in Mother Nature, herself, the baby in her womb and me.

I agree.

She smiles over at me, and I dismiss the servant rather rudely.

I know that roving look she gives me.

We are done in the fields for today.

I make sure little Edward is busy in his chamber, and I take my wife to my bed where I pleasure her well.

Labor starts directly after and we are greeted with another strapping boy. This one Isabella catches herself with the aid of the midwife while I am at her side.

We name him Robert Dudley Swan, later to be known as a Masen when we come out of hiding.

He is a beautiful babe, and his mother and I are spellbound by how large and strong he is.

**A/N:**

**More artistic license here. Robert Dudley is rumored to have been romantically entangled with Elizabeth I (Henry the VIII's daughter with Anne Boleyn). Historians are not sure if Robert was the same exact age as Elizabeth or a year older. At any rate, he was born on June 24th, and for the sake of this story, I put his birth in the same year as hers. Elizabeth was born 8 months after Henry and Anne married, on September 7, 1533.**

**It is payback time. Edward's seed will forever spurn Henry's. Hee hee! So much juiciness in Tudor times. How can I resist playing around in their garden of delights?**

**Scarlett**


	65. Chapter 65

**Chapter 65: Hide and Seek**

_May 19, 1536_

Victoria relentlessly searched for us for years.

Fortunately for us, Alice and Isabella became close in the short time we were at court all those years ago. Since Alice is well respected at court even though her brother Charles has a tenuous hold on his friendship with the king, she thwarts Victoria's vicious pursuit of us.

The calculating nature of Victoria is most frightening.

Anne Boleyn seems to be the only one to keep Victoria reined in.

But today that ends.

Today Anne Boleyn will be executed.

We moved back to England and now hide out in plain sight; back in Kent.

I grew weary of life in France, and Isabella was tired of being married to a bear of a man.

She hates being here in the crowd before the scaffolding—the place where they killed Emmett. After they racked him and I escaped, they had him drawn, quartered and beheaded.

Being here fills me with dread as well, but I have to witness this myself.

I cannot fathom Henry decapitating his own wife he professes to love.

It has to be an elaborate ruse.

My wife is ensconced by my arms as I shield her from view of the blood stained block.

She is ripe with our third child, two months away from delivering.

My heart tells me another boy is on the way.

Birds chirp around us in the bright morning sun.

It is morbid to start an execution at eight in the morning—a time when the mind is barely sharpening.

"What if the pig sees us?" my wife whispers, her lips against my chest.

"He won't be here. He has Jane to warm him in his sheets," I say confidently. I rub her back.

We have long been forgotten. I daresay Henry remembers us as an afterthought, but to the rest of his court . . . we vanished from existence.

My uncle, King James of Scotland, and I, correspond regularly now.

I bought an apple orchard where we raise a rare breed of Scottish horses.

I sell them to nobleman for an exorbitant price, and hide my notes of rebellion in the saddles. Uncle James receives them and we plot on how I shall take Henry's throne a few years hence.

Anne Boleyn is brought out of the tower and followed by her lady's in waiting.

This is a private execution to give Anne some dignity. It is held at the Tower Green. I found a way to be allowed a presence.

Isabella tries to get me to reveal my sources to be here, but she need not be bothered.

Anne stands before the small crowd, head held high, a twinkle of defiance in her eyes. She takes a deep breath. "Good Christian people, I am come hither to die, for according to the law, and by the law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against it. I am come hither to accuse no man, nor to speak anything of that, whereof I am accused and condemned to die, but I pray God save the king and send him long to reign over you, for a gentler nor a more merciful prince was there never. And to me he was ever a good, a gentle and sovereign lord. And if any person will meddle of my cause, I require them to judge the best. And thus I take my leave of the world and of you all, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me. Oh Lord have mercy on me, to God I commend my soul." Anne speaks as if she is reciting scripture.

She kneels on the scaffold bravely, without a tear shed. Her unwavering hands remove her English gable hood. I am surprised she does not wear her usual fashionable French headdress, but then she comes to die, not to dine and make merry.

Her ladies tie a blindfold over her eyes amidst their silent sobbing. Anne stills herself as if she readies to be saved at the last moment by Henry.

I steady my twitching legs. He will not come to her aid. The pig has no mercy. How can she not know this about her own husband?

Henry paid to have a swordsman chop her head off, rather than the normal block executioner. He purports this to be a more merciful means of death.

And it tells me he is serious about being rid of her.

I think him full of himself, and arrogant as ever if he imagines this will endear the hearts of the people to him.

Anne repeats over and over to herself, "To Jesus Christ I commend my soul; Lord Jesus receive my soul."

I shiver on the spot, praying this is not really happening. My jaw tenses, and I hold my breath.

The swordsman asks her forgiveness. She nods in agreement, and then his assistant distracts her by asking for his sword. The assistant moves to her right, and her eyes follow him. Then the swordsman reaches below him while he stands off to her left, and hidden in the hay, is his sword. He picks it up, and with one swift slice in the air, severs her head from her regal body.

Isabella looks up right as the blow occurs, and she yelps, then caves in on my chest.

I hold her as she keens and wallows in despair.

"Fear not, little bird. We are safe," I say, rocking her lightly back and forth.

And that is the moment when I stop desiring Henry's throne. He may have it, if this is what the crown does to men. I will stay with my bird in our nest, far from all this violence and debauchery. I will live with love for the rest of my days.

**THE END**

**A/N:**

**Anne's body and head were put into a narrow chest and buried in an unmarked grave in the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula, adjoining the Tower Green. Her body was one that was identified in renovations of the chapel under the reign of Queen Victoria, so Anne's final resting place is now marked in the marble floor, but for centuries it was unknown where precisely she lie. And actually, there is still ongoing controversy on exactly which cadaver is actually hers since Catherine Howard, Henry VIII's 5th wife, is down there as well, with her head lopped off as well, adding to the confusion of which skeleton is who. What a travesty.**

**So what say ye? Has this tale of blood and love and sacrifice moved thy core sufficiently? *sigh* I enjoyed sharing this with you. It was my warm up to write my full length novel I published. I actually have two more Tudor stories, different than this one, I'm considering sharing here on FF if there's an interest. One of them I might not be able to fit into the Twilight sphere though, so I'd have to see what I can do. That one I can't promise on.**

**Thanks for reading and putting up with my A/Ns, where I spewed forth the little things I've learned along the way as I explored my obsession with all things Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn so I could write and publish my novel, **_**Hart Coursing: Hounding Anne Boleyn**_**. It's on Amazon if you want to take a look. If you want a free copy, email me and I'll send you the electronic version (no paperbacks, sorry. That costs money I don't have to spend).**

**Okay, so that's it for this little bird and her knight in training. I put my longsword and armor away, so now this bard wearies of the battle and must travel on to greener pastures where she may rest her weary feet…**

**I do plan to eventually post another story in Tudor times over on my other account (which means it'll most definitely have lemons galore).**

**Good day to you all,**

**Scarlett**


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